


left behind

by euriele



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Siblings, Blood, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1711298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euriele/pseuds/euriele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she’s four years old, she meets him for the first time. Mom’s sat on the hospital bed, the little bundle in her arms. He’s called David, her mom says. He’s your little brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> so i saw a carwash siblings au and yeah

When she’s four years old, she meets him for the first time. Mom’s sat on the hospital bed, the little bundle in her arms. Mom holds him out for Carol to see, and she frowns at the tiny baby, with his tuft of blonde hair and his grey eyes. He’s called David, her mom says. He’s your little brother.

She holds him for the first time when they get back home, when her mother is trying to put away her things. She had no idea where he dad is, and she’s wanted to hold him since she first saw him. So her mother sits her up on the edge of the bed, David balanced precariously in her arms. And she just sits on the edge of the bed, with her little brother in her hands and doesn’t pay attention to what her mother is doing.

“He’s heavy,” she finally says.

“You were heavier,” her mom smiles.

“Was I?”

“Yep. And longer.”

“Does that mean I’ll be taller?”

Her mom laughs. “Who knows? He’s only a baby.”

“I hope he’s shorter.”

 

*

 

When she’s seven, mom doesn’t come home. A UNSC Marines flag comes home instead, and her dad retreats into his room for two days and refuses to come out. The door’s locked, and he doesn’t respond when she bangs on it violently. There’s no one to go for help, so she looks after David by herself.

It’s hard work, because she’s only seven and she doesn’t know what to do at first. But she manages to keep them both alive until her father finally emerges from his room with red-rimmed eyes and two days’ worth of stubble. He barely pays attention to them again for the next few days, only stopping his preparations for the funeral when he needs to feed them or put them to bed.

Carol doesn’t want to hate him, but it’s hard not to when your father is completely ignoring you.

 

*

 

She’s eight when they leave their suburban home. They leave it all behind. Carol has to pack both hers and her brother’s bags full of their possessions. Their father’s secured some high-end job, but it requires them to go live in some ship. Her father doesn’t exactly share all the details with them. She doesn’t even know what’s happening until they’re halfway to this new ship.

She and David have their own little room, their dad’s room adjoining. David helps her with laying their things away in their shiny new room. He chatters away happily, and she can’t help but smile. When he’d seen the SPARTANs roaming around the decks and pilots shouting across the hangar and the ODST soldiers getting ready for their next drop, he’d been ecstatic.

He stops chattering, though, when their father walks in. He’s always quiet around their father. Carol notes how they barely ever say a word to each other. Carol thinks it’s because Wash looks too much like their mother, since he had the same eyes, same hair colour, the same _nose…_ Sometimes Carol looks at David and sees too much of mom, but she doesn’t shut him out like dad does.

She doesn’t bother trying to not hate their father anymore.

 

*

 

She’s sixteen when she decides she wants to be an ODST. She sits and watches the troopers come through the ship every day, watching them dreamily from the classroom window. She knows her father doesn’t want her to go into anything UNSC related, not after what happened to mom. But she wants to fight. She wants to do something with her life.

She wants to be a ODST.

“You want to be an actual ODST?” David says one night after their lessons.

In the years since they moved to the _Mother of Invention,_ David really has grown. He’s twelve now, just about to hit puberty and it really does show. He wears glasses that are far too big for his face and has acne blooming over his left cheek and across his forehead. He’s shorter than Carol for the time being, but only just. She knows he’ll tower over her once he has a growth spurt.

“Why not?” she says, brushing her red hair out of her eyes. After seeing how much _she_ looked like her mother, she died her hair red. There was no way she was being another ghost for their father to try and ignore.

“Well, it’s dangerous for one.”

“You want to be an ODST, too.”

“… Good point.”

She grins and he grins back, that stupid lopsided smile he always did. Sometimes, she wants to smack that smirk off of his face but she never does. Of course, their father did after one particular incident involving David skateboarding around the ship’s corridors and careening right into their dad. Their dad’s only ever hit David once, and that’s because David made sure to stay well out of their father’s reach. The skateboard lay forgotten at the bottom of their closest.

Carol’s eyes rove over Wash’s face as he glares down at the homework they’d been assigned. She hates to admit it, but he’s a bit better than her when it comes to academic side of things – but only marginally. She’s a lot better than him at Maths and Science, but he’s awesome when it comes to History.

And he’s smug about it too. Just as Carolina finishes off a paragraph-long answer to a question, Wash taps his pencil against the paper, right above her answer. He’s got that lopsided grin on his face. “That’s wrong.”

“Shut up.”

 

*

 

She’s twenty-two when Project Freelancer kicks off. It’s been four years since she’s seen David, and they never call anymore. She’s one of the top ODSTs in the business, and he’s a gifted Marine who’s well above average. He tried out ODST, until he realised half-way through his first drop that he was afraid of heights and was transferred to the Marine Corps.

And their father, meanwhile, has started up his new research division. It was only for the top soldiers. Carol had not yet been told what they were researching, but her father had asked for her to come and be a part of their “top team”. And she’d agreed for some strange reason that was far beyond her.

So she was standing in the hangar bay of the _Mother of Invention,_ with a bag over her shoulder and a group of people standing in front of her. She registers them one by one – a pair of twins (boy and girl), a guy who’s twice the size of the average human, a Brit with a rather fantastic moustache and a short but stocky woman who’s brought her own collection of knives with her.

And by her side stands Sean, whom she met in this shitty nightclub called the Carrera two nights earlier. He’s taller than she is, and he’s a loudmouth. But still, there’s something about him that makes Carol radiate towards him. She doesn’t know what it is. She’ll be damned if she says it’s attraction.

He’s talking to her, chatting away animatedly about something she couldn’t care less about when the big dude separates from the group and walks over. Sean falls silent, watching the guy warily. Carol draws herself to her full height, but even then she only just reaches Big Guy’s shoulder.

He’s got the smallest of smiles in his face as he looks at Carol, his eyes focused on her nose in particular for some reason. She frowns at him, crossing her arms over her chest. “What?”

“David has the same nose,” he grunts and Carol freezes, eyes going wide.

“You know David?” she chokes, ignoring Sean’s questioning stares.

“Was my partner.”

“So he’s okay then?”

“Safe.”

She breathes sigh of relief. It’s been years since she’s been able to get through to David, considering he’s been on the frontlines on colonised planets. It’s not like he has much chance to stop and chat whilst he’s fighting a war, so it’s good to hear from someone who knows him that he’s safe.

 

*

 

She’s twenty-two when she becomes Agent Carolina.

In PFL, each agent is given their own codename. They’re each named after a state in America, and Carol becomes Carolina. It’s not that big a change, not like how Sean becomes Agent New York. They’re assigned their own suit of MJOLNIR armour each, and hers a bright aqua colour that contrasts the black coloured armour she had in the SPARTAN project. New York’s armour is golden, and the Big Guy’s – now called Agent Maine – is white. Both she and Maine have different helmets to everyone else, she having a Recon helmet whilst Maine is given an EVA helmet.

Each suit of armour has its own enhancement as well. Carolina’s is fitted with a speed unit and a cloaking unit. Back at her old base, they’d only had the normal enhancements, like agility and strength, so she wasn’t used to speed or the cloaking units. New York’s is fitted with a healing unit; the male twin – North Dakota – has an energy shield and a motion tracker and so on. The only one who doesn’t seem to have an enhancement is Maine, and Carolina wonders why until she realises just how big Maine is and just how strong the guy must be. He certainly doesn’t need an enhancement.

Just as they’re testing out their new armour, a PFL soldier walks in and tells her the Director has asked to see her. And her heart drops into her stomach, because her father never normally has anything good to say to her, so she must’ve already found some way to fuck up.

He’s waiting for her on the bridge, along with his right-hand man called the Counsellor. He’s got his back to her, but she can see the grey hairs growing in, more than she remembered. His hands are behind his back, and she sees the way he continuously twists the platinum wedding band around his finger.

“Agent Carolina,” the Director says, hearing her come to a halt.

“Sir,” she says, standing to attention and saluting like she’s been taught to.

“I trust you’ll prove to be worth the trouble of bringing you here.”

She grits her teeth. “I hope I can please you, sir.”

He nods. “Have you spoken to your brother recently?”

“No. But Agent Maine knows him, sir. He’s well, apparently.”

“Good, that’s good.”

She wants to say something, maybe shout about how he’s not given a shit about David for the last eighteen years so why should he start caring now? But she holds her tongue, just waits until the Director finally turns to look at her. And, honestly, she’s not sure she knows the man standing before her, because her father had more laugh lines than wrinkles, had tanned skin rather than pale, did not hide his eyes behind darkened lenses.

She expects him to say something to her – maybe she’s childishly hoping for an apology.

But all he says is, “Dismissed.”

 

*

 

She’s twenty-four when Agent Washington joins the team.

She’s the best of the team, number one on the leader board. She doesn’t fail missions, she tears it up on the training room floor, and she keeps them all in line. She expects the Director to give her some kind of recognition, but all he does is nod and refuse to meet her eyes. That makes her grit her teeth. Apparently, it still wasn’t enough for him.

The day that Agent Washington arrives, she didn’t know they were supposed to be getting a new agent. None of them did. But when they awake in the morning and go out into the common room, they find him stood there awkwardly in his grey and yellow armour. He’s got his helmet on, but Carolina can just feel the nervousness and the tension rolling off of him in waves. She hazarded a guess that he was probably biting his lips.

“No one told me we were getting a rookie,” York says when he sees the new agent, pulling off his helmet.

“That’s because no one knew,” North says.

“I just came through this morning, sir,” the new agent says and Carolina freezes because she’s sure she recognises that voice. And when she sees Maine freeze as well, she’s suddenly got a good idea on who the new kid was.

“So, what’s your name, rookie?” York says, clapping the new kid on the shoulder.

“Washington,” he says.

“Well, Wash, welcome to the group,” York smiles. He turns and points to each Freelancer one-by-one, introducing them to Washington. “There’s Connie –“

“I prefer C.T.”

“– Connie who prefers to go by C.T, Agent South, Agent North, and that’s Wyoming and Florida in the back over there. I’m York, and the two over there are Maine and Carolina.”

“He knows us,” Carolina says, smiling beneath her helmet. All the Freelancers, including Wash, looked to her and Maine, obviously confused. And then she pulls off her helmet and sees Wash still. “Hey, little brother.”

York’s spluttering and looking from Wash to Carolina and back again as Wash pulls off his own helmet, a grin on his face. He’s looking a lot older than Carolina remembers, but he’s still just as freckled and he’s still got the same messy hair, even worse now that he’s had his helmet on. He no longer wears his glasses, and his acne scars have faded. But, he’s got a tiny little ‘x’ shaped scar on his left cheek that she doesn’t remember him having. He looks so different that it throws her for a loop for a few moments before she remembers how much _she_ has changed and decides that glasses and scars mean nothing.

“Didn’t know you’d be here,” Wash says, he and Carolina crossing the distance between each other and hugging for the first time in years.

“I wasn’t told you’d be coming through.” Carolina can sense the stares from her fellow teammates, and knows they’ll both be up for questioning soon enough. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Right back at you.”

Maine walks over, arms crossed over his chest. Wash, obviously not recognizing him, loses his smile and eyes Maine warily until Maine snorts and takes off his own helmet, and Wash’s smile is back in an instant when Maine grins down at him. And then the two of them do something really stupid and really surprising.

They head-butt.

It’s not some weak little head-butt though; it’s a full on _crack!_ that makes Carolina wince. Both men stagger away from each, rubbing at their foreheads but they’re smiling, which makes Carolina think that this is just something they used to do. The others, meanwhile, are looking on confused.

“Was that you two attacking each other?” South asks, eyes flicking from man to man. “Or was that something else?”

“Something we used to do after a mission in the Marine Corps,” Wash says, shaking his head. “But, we did it with helmets on.”

“So you’re Carolina’s little bro and you’re Maine’s buddy?” York asks, and he frowns when Wash nods. “Dude, why has no one ever told me this?”

“Because I knew you’d tease him,” Carolina says with a roll of her eyes.

“Me? Tease? I’m wounded, Carolina.”

“Don’t you guys think we should get moving?” Connie asks, her eyes on Wash. Carolina can’t tell if she’s regarding him with amusement or confusion or even fear. Maybe all three. “The Director said he wanted to see us this morning.”

“Does that include me?” Wash asks as they start to trickle out of the room one by one.

“Most likely.”

“C’mon,” Carolina says, shoving him in the direction of the door. She and Wash are at the back of the queue of people leaving the room. As soon as Maine leaves, Carolina slams the door shut in Wash’s face. He looks to her with a confused expression that turns to fear when he sees the look in her eyes.

“You know who the Director is, right?” she asks him.

“Yes,” he says thickly.

“Well, these guys don’t,” she says. “None of them know who we are and they’re not about to find out. So don’t say a word when you see the Director. We’re trying to not show that we have familial ties.”

“Don’t worry, Carol,” David says, and her chest constricts when he says her name. He’s got that stupid lopsided smile on his face. It reminds her a lot of the younger David who wore glasses and had acne. “I won’t say a word.”

 

*

 

Two days later, Wash goes on his first mission with the team. It’s him, Carolina and Maine being deployed to one of many Insurrectionist bases to retrieve a data file. It’s a simple stealth mission, but Carolina can’t help but worry for Wash, because the last time there was a stealth mission like this someone came home with a bullet in their chest and they were just as much a rookie as Wash was.

So she’s nervous as they’re flying to the base, wringing her wrists and going over the plan again and again in her head. She notices the way that Maine’s staring at her, as if he knows exactly what she’s thinking, and, a second later, she gets a message over her HUD.

**He’ll be fine.**

She glances to Wash. He’s not paying attention to either of them. His head’s back against the seat, and his knuckles are clenched tightly around the harness. It takes her a second to remember how much he hates flying. She looks back to Maine, who’s sat directly across from her and replies. _I know._

**Then stop worrying.**

_Hard not to when you’ve known this kid for years._

**I’ve seen him on the front lines. He can handle this.**

She doesn’t know what to say for a few seconds, before saying, _Okay._

 

*

 

She’s twenty-four when her brother is shot for the first time.

Really, it’s all her fault. She wasn’t paying attention for a split second. She was meant to be covering Wash whilst he set up shots for Maine. Their entire mission had gone to pot the moment they got into the base. Their intel had been wrong. There were more Insurrectionists that originally counted, so they were fucked.

Now they were just fighting their way out of the base. She’s got her back turned, fighting hand-to-hand with some soldier. She doesn’t see the shooter. She doesn’t know he’s there until Wash sees him at the last second and throws himself in front of Carolina just as he pulls the trigger.

The first shot sends blood spraying onto Carolina’s back. She finishes off the soldier she’s fighting and turns to see Wash, his arms half-raised and a bullet hole in his chest. He’s staggering, taking gasping breaths, and Carolina’s face drains of colour. He turns to face her, looking up at her just as the gun-shots sound again. One, two, three, four, five –

She shoots the soldier.

Wash is face down on the floor, blood already pooling around him. Fingers shaking from panic, Carolina quickly applies biofoam to the wounds. She knows it’ll help a little, but not enough. She needs to get him back to the _MOI_.

“Maine?” she asks, opening up the comm line. “Maine, we need to move. Wash is down. He needs medical attention.”

“ _On my way,_ ” he grunts. Seconds later, he leaps over the crates they’re hiding behind, freezing at the sight of Wash. As he hauls Wash onto his back, Carolina comms Four-Seven-Niner, their pilot.

“We need evac now!” she shouts as she and Maine set off at a run, bullets peppering the floor behind them.

“ _I’m ready and waiting for ya’!”_

*

 

She’s twenty-four when she thinks she’s going to lose her brother forever.

The minute they arrive back at the _MOI,_ the medics descend upon Wash and pull him onto a stretcher and carry him out of the hangar bay, leaving Carolina back on the Pelican, her brother’s blood on both her armour and the floor of the ship. She stares at it for a long while, still reeling in shock from what had happened before Maine lays a hand on her shoulder and pulls her from the ship. His face is still hidden beneath his helmet, but she can see his clenched fist by his side, the way in which he holds himself, and knows he’s handling what’s happened just as well as she is.

York’s just walking into the hangar bay as they leave the Pelican, followed by North, South and Connie. York’s helmet is off, and he’s got a smirk on his face until he sees the blood on both Carolina’s and Maine’s armour. Carolina pulls off her helmet as she walks over, suddenly feeling too enclosed inside of it.

“What happened?” he asks. He looks over Carolina’s shoulder, eyes going wide when he sees that Wash isn’t with them. “Where’s Wash?”

“I wasn’t looking,” she stammers. “I wasn’t paying attention, and he jumped in front of me and took six rounds to the chest and – and – “

Her heart’s going too fast, and it feels as if her throat is closing up. She forces herself to stay calm, to just breathe and calm herself down. She runs a hand across her forehead, wiping away the sweat beaded there and realises a second too late that her hand was soaked in Wash’s blood – _David’s_ blood. She stares at the sticky substance on her hand and York suddenly takes her hand.

“C’mon,” he says, pulling her out of the hangar bay. She doesn’t protest. She just allows herself to be pulled along the corridors and down into the locker room.

“You need to clean up,” York says. “Then we’ll go down to Recovery. Okay?”

She nods and starts pulling the bloody armour off bit-by-bit. Really, she should clean it, but there’s no time for that now and honestly she couldn’t care less. She just pulls each piece off and throws it into her locker. She peels away the black Kevlar under suit and pulls some sweats and a shirt on instead before crossing to the sinks and washing the blood from her face.

“What happened out there?” York asks as she watches the red water swirl down the drain.

“Like I said, I had my back turned,” she says, turning off the faucet. “Dumb mistake. Some soldier was going to get the jump on me but Wash jumped in front of me. Took six rounds to the chest before I even fucking moved. I just stood there and watched –“

“Hey, stop it,” York says, his hand over her shaking one. “He’s gonna be alright.”

She sighs, runs a blood free hand across her face and doesn’t resist when she feels York’s arms around her waist.

They go down to Recovery together. Maine’s already there, waiting outside. He’s also out of his armour and in civvy clothes. He’s leaning against the door to Recovery, arms crossed over his chest and glaring a hole into the floor. He looks up at York and Carolina as they approach, and Carolina can see the worry and the irritation etched into Maine’s face.

“Not out of surgery yet,” Maine grunts.

“Have they said anything?” Carolina asks, her eyes flickering to the door.

“Nothing.” Maine pushes off from the wall, looks from the door to Carolina. His gaze softens. “Seen him take worse.”

At her questioning eyebrow raise, he grins. “Took a grenade once. Shrapnel to chest. Worse than this. He lived. Another time he broke an ankle two miles out of base. Got back in one piece. He can make it through this.”

Carolina sucks in a breath. She’s never heard what Wash did during his time with the marines. Hearing this tiny snippet of what he’s been through actually calms her down because, really, bullets are nothing compared to the damage done by a grenade. She knows from a rather recent experience.

It’s not long before the door to Recovery slides open and reveals a doctor in white, holding a clipboard. Carolina can’t see their expression behind the white visor of their helmet, and it unsettles her. But, the Doc looks up at the three Freelancers and says, “He’s awake.”

Wash is sat up on his bed, face as grey as ash and dripping with sweat. He’s rubbing at his chest, which is bare save for the bandages that loop their way across, around his back and back over again. He looks up to Carolina, Maine and York and gives that same lopsided smile that she remembers from their teen years.

“Hey,” he croaks.

“Still alive,” Maine growls, holding out his fist to Wash.

“Still alive,” Wash repeats, bumping his fist against Maine’s.

“From what I’ve heard, you must have some guardian angel shit going on, rookie,” York says with a grin.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Carolina says, and everyone looks to her. “You… You really had me worried there for a sec, Wash.”

And that fucking grin is back and he says, “Sorry boss.”

 

*

 

He’s twenty-two when his best friend gets shot in the throat.

He’s not sure what to do as they haul Maine into the back of the Pelican. He just stands and stares as North and York crouch down beside Maine. There’s blood staining Maine’s normally white armour, and there’s so much of it that Wash just feels physically sick looking at it. He carries on staring as Connie hands North the med kit before finally crouching down on the floor beside York, who’s trying to stop the blood flowing from the wound in Maine’s abdomen.

“Is – Is he gonna be okay?” he chokes out.

“Can’t say right now, Wash,” North says, growling under his breath. He pressed a wad of bandages into Wash’s hands suddenly. “Press these down on his throat. We need to stop the bleeding.”

Wash’s hands are shaking as he presses the bandages down onto Maine’s throat. North tugs Maine’s helmet off so that they can get to the wound better, but Wash finds himself wishing North hadn’t done that. Maine’s still conscious. He’s still blinking blearily, frowning at things like the ceiling of the Pelican or at the seats. He keeps twisting his head, so Wash finally takes his jaw with one hand and makes Maine look at him. “Hey, stop moving. Keep your eyes on me.”

Maine does as he’s told. He locks his eyes onto Wash, and Wash stares right back. He’s seen Maine’s eyes so many times. He saw them every day back in the Marines, when he was David and Maine was Matty. He saw a lot of emotions in those eyes: amusement, anger, worry, admiration. But Wash had never seen fear.

That’s what he sees then. Pure, unfiltered fear in Matty’s amber eyes because they both know it’s a lot more serious than whatever they went through in the Marines. They’d never experienced anything like an entire clip being emptied in a person’s throat. Maybe that’s why Wash’s hands are shaking so much. It’s because he knows it’s a lot more serious, and Matty can’t just pull out the foreign object and walk away with a swagger in his step this time.

And then Maine’s hand twitches. York’s trying to tell him to stop moving, to just lie still and lower his arm, but Maine’s hand still wraps around Wash’s bicep. And then Wash takes one hand away from the throat wound and takes Maine’s hand in his whilst keeping the other hand pressed firmly against the wound.

He remembers the first time he got hurt. He remembers how the grenade had gone off, how the next thing he knew he was lying on his back with shrapnel in his chest and Matty in a panic above him. He remembers how Matty ran through a warzone, took a bullet in the leg and almost died twice, just to get him to safety. And he remembers how Matty sat by his side throughout the surgery, just gripping his hand to let him know he was there.

So he stays by Maine’s side all the way back to the _MOI_ , not even moving when Connie takes over staunching the wound. He’s only moved when they get back to the ship and Maine’s taken away by medics, leaving Wash crouched on the Pelican floor. He realises he’s the only one still crouched down, and that the others are staring at him.

He’s up in a flash, pushing past York when he tries to stop him and runs after the medics. He tries to stay by Maine’s side, but they won’t let him into the operating theatre. So he instead paces incessantly outside of Recovery until a crew member comes along and tells him he can’t loiter.

So that’s how he finds himself in the locker room, his helmeted head pressed against the metal door of his locker. He swears to himself before peeling off his armour bit-by-bit, rubbing at his itching eyes as he does so. Finally, he’s out of his suit and into his civvy stuff. He picks up the little case on the top shelf of his locker, pulls out the contact lenses and puts them inside before putting his glasses on. He rarely wears them anymore on account of the helmets and how often they wear their suits, so the weight on his nose feels heavy and foreign.

“Blast from the past.”

His head snaps up. Carol’s stood at the end of the row of lockers, helmet under one arm as the other wraps its way around his midsection, across her ribs. She’s got a weak smile on her face, and her eyes convey the worry. David glances down at the ground before he sighs and slams his locker door shut. “Heard anything about Maine?”

“Nothing.” Carol’s limping as she heads to her locker, favouring her right leg more than her left. “Still in surgery.”

“He’ll be okay,” Wash says, but he’s sure he’s reassuring himself more than her. His hands are shaking again. He can still see the fear in Maine’s eyes. “He’ll be fine. He’ll be –“

“Hey.” Her armoured hand’s on his shoulder, cutting off his words. He half turns to look at her, sees the concern on her face. “He _will_ be okay, alright? He’s in the best possible hands. And he’s Maine. That guy can take anything.”

“But this… this was different.”

“He _will_ be fine,” Carol says.

They stand together in silence for a few seconds before Carol sighs. “Listen, I know how much Maine means to you. You guys have been friends – no, _partners_ – for a long time and you care about each other a lot. You’ve been on the front lines together. Maine can battle through this, okay?”

And David appreciates it. He really does. “Thanks, sis.”

“No problem, little brother.”


	2. Part II

He’s twenty-two when his best friend loses his voice.

The doctors save Maine. They patch him up. But they come to Wash as he takes a seat beside Maine’s bed and give him the news. And he honestly doesn’t know what to think, because Maine’s always been quiet and doesn’t have much to say about anything. But he still feels his chest ache when the doctors tell him. He stares at the doctor in shock until she walks away before turning to look at Maine, who’s still unconscious.

He sinks back into his seat, rubbing at his eyes. Carol’s earlier words – reassuring him that everything will be fine – replay themselves in his head. It’s obviously not going to be fine, because Maine’s got no voice, Carol and the new Freelancer, Texas, are at each other’s throats and there’s a new program starting up that involves A.I. being implanted into the heads of the Freelancers and Wash just knows that’s a recipe for disaster if he ever saw one.

He sighs, leans forward in his chair and props his elbows against the edge of Maine’s bed. His eyes trace the bandages around Maine’s neck, wincing when he sees the tip of the scar stretching just beyond the edges of the bandages. Sighing again, he pressed his face into his arms and screw his eyes shut.

“What’s the verdict?”

His head snaps up. North’s standing at the end of the bed, out of his armour with his arms crossed over his chest. He pulls up a chair beside Wash, flops down into it.

“He’s fine, for the most part,” Wash says, pushing his glasses out of the way as he rubs at his eyes again. “B-But…” He has to stop, has to take a deep breath before he can carry on talking. “Couldn’t save his voice.”

“What?”

“He’ll never talk again.”

Wash sighs and presses his forehead to his arms again. North’s silent beside him. Wash can hear him breathing, just breathing. Then, North shifts in his seat and his hand is on Wash’s back.

“At least he’s alive. That counts for something.”

 

*

 

She’s twenty-six and she’s first up for A.I. implantation. Seeing as she was top of the leader board after Texas, and Texas had apparently ‘refused’ to have an A.I., it’s decided that she would be the first to receive one and then York and Wyoming after her. She’s to receive the fragment Sigma, whilst York gets Delta and Wyoming has Gamma.

She’s been waiting for these implants since they were announced. She’s ready for Sigma to be implanted. She’s _excited_ for it. But when she’s looking for her brother one day, she finds him sat by Maine’s side as usual, and Maine’s having to communicate by sending messages across their HUDs from a small padd in his hands. He never talked much before losing his voice, but it’s obviously having an effect on him, having no voice.

So she makes a decision.

Maine’s at the bottom of the leader board due to his injury, so it will be a while before he gets his own A.I. The A.I.s will be hooked right into the brains of the Freelancers. If so, then maybe, if Maine gets his own A.I., he’ll be able to communicate.

She goes to the Director, and it ends up being a very heated argument. But she eventually wins out, and she’s put back on the implantation list, right down to the bottom, and Maine’s pushed to the top of the list. She’s got a smile on her face as she’s leaving, because this is the first time she’s won an argument with the Director.

But as she’s leaving, the Director says, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Agent Carolina.”

_He’s trying to throw me off_ , she thinks. She holds her head high, refuses to look at him. “I think I do, sir.”

 

*

 

He’s twenty-three and everything’s crumbling down around him.

Maine’s too distant, too cold. Ever since he received Sigma, he’s been a changed man. He was okay for the first few days, still hanging around with Wash after hours. They found that Wash could understand Maine’s growls and that’s how they communicated.

But then he just stopped meeting up with him in the rec room all of a sudden. At first, Wash thought it was just a one-time thing, but then Maine was ignoring him when they run into each other in the corridors. He’s sitting as far away from Wash as possible when they’re eating. He’s actively avoiding him, and Wash has no idea why.

To make matters worse, Connie’s gone over to the other side. She was Wash’s friend at one point, until the leader board got into her head. And then she switches over to the Insurrectionists side during a mission and it really wounds Wash to know that he’s just lost two friends in a short space of time.

Carol’s being short with him. Ever since the disastrous Sarcophagus mission, she’s been pushing herself too hard. Wash finds her on the training room floor at all hours of the day, relentlessly going over exercises until she completely perfects them. And whenever she tries to talk to her, she’s curt and cold, referring to him as ‘Washington’ rather than ‘Wash’ or ‘David’. He accidently calls her Carol one day and she punches him in the chest. Leaves a rather nice bruise.

And then they’re all on a mission to retrieve Connie’s armour from the Insurrectionist base and he’s with York, and York says he’s the worst fighter on the team and it really does hit home.

Carolina and Texas come back from trying to retrieve the armour, but they don’t have the armour or the leader of Connie. Then Texas spits out that Carolina let them get away before giving a short sharp laugh and saying, “Well, at least she’s dead.”

Wash freezes at that. “What?”

“ _Texas_ ,” Carolina spits, “Went a little all out on C.T. She won’t survive, that’s for sure.”

Wash doesn’t know what to say. He just stands and stares. North’s hand is on his shoulder, because he knows that he and Connie were friends. He looks to Maine, but Maine looks away. Then he looks to Texas, who’s standing on the edge of the group of Freelancers.

“You just killed her?” Wash snarls, his fists clenching.

“She was traitor,” Texas says.

“She was a teammate.”

“If you’re so bothered, I’ll let you handle the next mission, kid. For now, shut up. What’s done is done.”

 

*

 

He’s twenty-three and his sister is getting reckless.

The competition with Texas gets into her head. He tries to calm her down, talk sense into her, but it doesn’t work. He talks to York, and York just assures him he’s doing his best to help her, to calm her down. But none of them get through. He sees her roaming the corridors at night, muttering beneath her breath. She’s sleeping less, training more. One attempt at talking to her ends with him being slammed roughly into the wall as she stalks away.

And then she asks for two A.I. More specifically, she asks for _his_ A.I.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, cornering her in the locker room before she goes for surgery.

“What I should’ve done a while ago,” she replies, her back to him. She’s going through her locker, looking for something.

“Two A.I.? Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes, I am,” Carolina snaps, slamming her locker door shut and spinning around to face him. He backpedals at the glare she gives him. “Sorry, Washington. Maybe I’ll come to you for permission next time.”

“Carol –“

“Don’t!” She grabs him by his chest plate, pushes him back into the lockers so hard there’s a dent when he peels himself off. He’s groaning, his back aching from the impact. And Carolina looks guilty. She clenches her fists down by her sides. She wipes away tears, but Wash has already seen them.

“I need to be better,” she growls as Wash rubs his sore back. “I need to beat Texas.”

“So that means taking a huge risk like this?”

“The Director agreed to it.”            

“You sure he has you best interests in mind?”

“Shut up, Washington.”

“Don’t tell me –“

“ _That’s an order._ ”

And they stand there in silence for several seconds before Wash nods. “Okay. Fine. Be that way.”

He turns his back on her, heads to his own locker. He can hear her breathing heavily, trying to keep control. “Wash –“

“You’re going in for surgery soon,” he says, his voice monotone. He refuses to look at her. “I wouldn’t be late.”

“Listen –“

“No. Just go.”

She hesitates a second longer before she leaves, and he hears her punch something before she does. And then he slumps, leaning heavily against the lockers. He pulls his helmet off and rubs his eyes.

Everything is so fucked up.

 

*

 

He’s twenty-three and his friends break down. It’s the match between Carolina and Texas. Carolina’s got her two A.I. – Eta and Iota – liked she asked for, and now it’s time to test them out. Wash stands on the observation deck with the other Freelancers, nervously rubbing at the knuckle of his pinky finger.

He’s worried about Carolina. The moment she woke up, she demanded a match with Texas. This competition with Texas is driving her around the bend, and having three sets of thoughts in her mind wasn’t going to be good for her. He finds himself worrying why the Director would agree to this.

Then again, he never really gave a shit about either him or Carol.

The second the match starts, the Director runs in. He sees Texas and Carolina down on the floor and runs to the windows, screaming the name ‘Allison’. And then the Freelancers are on the knees around him, shouting out in pain as the A.I.s collectively shout Allison’s name over and over. And Wash is at a loss of what to do.

And the worst thing is he knows the name. He’s heard the name Allison before. He knows that he and Carolina have some kind of connection to it. The problem is he just doesn’t remember where he’s heard the name before.

The Freelancers struggle back to their feet. Wyoming’s tossed his helmet aside, and Wash can see him just full-on glare at the Director, as if he knows the cause by this tiny breakdown. But no one else is paying attention, because Carolina’s still shouting down on the training floor. And no one’s doing a God damn thing to help her.

“Someone needs to help her!” he shouts, turning to the Director and the Counsellor.

“She chose this,” the Director says.

“Are you fucking serious?! She’s your –“

The Director’s head snaps up and he glares Wash into silence. And Carolina’s still screaming.

The Director turns away from them, starts walking away. “Dismissed.”

He’s almost out of the door before he stops, turns to look at Wash. “You’re up for implantation next, Agent Washington.”

“What?” York half-shouts, turning to look at the Director. No one notices how Wash’s hands have started shaking. “After this?”

The Director says nothing. He just leaves the room. York and North look to Wash, and he can feel the concerned stares. But he ignores them, looks down to his screaming sister just as Texas knocks her out. And then the medics finally flood onto the floor and they lift her onto a stretcher and take her away.

York moves forward, reaches to take Wash’s shoulder, but Wash bolts out of the room, ignoring the others as they shout after him.

 

*

 

He’s twenty-three and he’s really fucking nervous. His sister’s been out cold for days. No one’s explained what happened on the training room floor, why everyone broke down at the mention of a single name. Maine’s still not talking to him, but as Wash is on his way for his implantation, he feels an arm on his own and he’s suddenly being dragged into a closest full of cleaning supplies.

He fights with the arm, tries pushing the person away but they’re like a brick wall. And then he registers that it’s Maine who’s pulled him into this tiny cupboard, and it’s Maine who’s gripping his chest plate tightly, pushing him up against the wall.

“Maine, what the fuck?” Wash hisses, batting Maine’s arm away. “I need to go for implantation!”

Maine growls again, shoving at Wash’s chest again.

“You want to talk to me? Too fucking late. Maybe you should’ve spoken to me weeks ago, when I actually gave a shit.”

Another growl.

“What about the A.I.?”

Another quiet growl.

“That’s what you pulled me in here for?” Wash spits. “You practically ambush me just to tell me to be careful? Is it so hard for you to just walk up and tell me?”

Maine doesn’t reply. He just hangs his head. Wash, knowing that he’s going to be late and knowing he doesn’t want to spend any more time in this tiny cupboard with Maine, goes to push the door open and leave, but Maine grabs his wrist and keeps him from leaving. Wash tries to pull his wrist from Maine’s grip, but Maine’s fingers just tighten. And then he growls again, and Wash freezes because Maine just fucking _apologised_ to him.

“What are you apologising for?”

Maine growls again, his grip on Wash’s wrist loosening.

“You’ll have to be a bit more specific than ‘everything’.”

Maine growls again, and Wash smiles.

“What do you mean, ‘not acting soon enough’?”

Maine doesn’t respond. Instead, he yanks his helmet off. And Wash barely has a second to register those familiar amber eyes, the scar crawling up to Maine’s chin and the unhealthy colour of his skin before Maine hooks a hand beneath Wash’s helmet, pulls it off and pressed his lips to Wash’s.

He freezes. His hands are on Maine’s chest plate, ready to either push him away or pull him closer. God dammit, how many times had he thought about this back before they joined PFL? How many times had he wanted to act but though against it in case Matty would smack him into next week? And now here he was, finally doing what he’d always wanted to do but he suddenly didn’t want it anymore, because Matty isn’t Matty anymore. He’s barely even Maine.

He doesn’t pull away. He stands still until Maine finally pulls away, and he barely has the chance to get a word in before Maine’s leaving the cupboard, his helmet already back on. And Wash is sure he heard him growl out another apology as he left.

 

*

 

He’s twenty-three and the implantation goes wrong.

He can feel them attaching the A.I. to the back of his mind. He can hear the heart monitor, the beeping getting faster with each second that passes. He screws his eyes shut, trying to calm himself down for when the A.I. is activated. North warned him beforehand that he needed to be calm when Epsilon, his A.I., is activated. It makes the meld easier.

But when Epsilon is powered up, he explodes into millions of tiny shards and splinters his way through Washington’s mind. Wash screams, pushes himself off the operating table and grabbing fistfuls of his hair. He can hear Epsilon screaming in his head; see the flickering A.I. by his side. He sees memories, memories he doesn’t remember. Epsilon’s screaming, shouting in a million voices at once.

_They told me you were dead –_

_I never got to say goodbye to her –_

_They said you’d died –_

_Allison –_

_THEY SAID YOU DIED. THEY LIED._

Epsilon shows him things he doesn’t want to see. A woman with blonde hair and grey eyes, a coffin draped in a UNSC flag, a blonde haired kid skating through the corridors of the ship, a red haired woman running from him, his mind shattering into fragments, forgetting who he is, breaking pieces of himself away to escape from them, to end the pain –

Wash falls to his knees. He’s still screaming, and he feels the blood running from his nose. Someone’s shouting at him, telling him to calm down, but Epsilon’s digging in deeper, screaming louder, and Wash just screams along with him. His hands reach round to the back of his head, his fingers clawing at the place where Epsilon is imbedded in his head. Someone tries to restrain him, but he fights them off, desperate to get rid of the voice in his mind.

_THEY LIED TO ME. THEY LIED. THEY LIED AND THEY TORTURED AND THEY RIPPED ME TO PIECES._

“STOP!” Wash pleads, unaware of the blood that runs from the back of his neck. “STOP, PLEASE!”

“Sedate him, now!”

 

*

 

He’s twenty-three and he wakes up in Recovery. He can feel scars in his head that he never had before. He has memories and knowledge he shouldn’t have. All the questions he’d asked have answers now, and he realises that he doesn’t want them. He knows who Texas is, he knows what they did the make the fragments, he knows about the Dakota experiment. He knows _everything._

So when the twins start arguing over the top of him, telling him what’s happened and what Texas has done and what’s going on with Carolina, his head starts hurting. Epsilon’s been taken out, but he stills hears the ghost of the A.I.’s voice in the back of his mind, still hears Epsilon screaming. The ghost pain at the back of his neck starts up.

And the alarms start, and the Dakotas are gone before Wash can say a word. The ship’s rocking from side to side, and then come the explosions that shake the ship so hard that Wash falls from his bed. He stumbles to his feet, staggers towards the door. But it slams shut in his face. Recovery goes into lockdown, and Epsilon knew that Recovery only did that if a ship was going to crash.

The room shakes and tilts downwards. And then the artificial gravity goes off. Wash, his mind still addled, doesn’t register that he’s floating until he touches the ceiling. And it’s peaceful, just floating around Recovery, until the _MOI_ breaks through the atmosphere of the planet they were hovering above and gravity suddenly comes into play again. Wash slams against the far wall, barely has time to recover before he notices the flames outside the windows. The alarms are louder and louder by the second, and there’s the voice of F.I.L.S.S.

“ _Impact in 10… 9… 8… -“_

Wash grips a railing tight, steels himself ready.

“- _7… 6… 5…-“_

He thinks about Carol. He thinks about the twins. Tex and York, Wyoming, even Florida.

“ _4… 3… 2…-“_

He thinks about Maine, his lips on Wash’s, his apologies –

“ _1.”_

 

*

 

He doesn’t care how old he is, and he’s lying in a heap in Recovery. Well, what’s left of Recovery, because the walls are on fire, the roof has collapsed and the windows have imploded. His helmet’s off, lying just out of his reach with the visor cracked. There’s blood running down his face, glass embedded in his jawline. Something’s crushing his legs. He tries and sits up, sees the metal sheets crushing his legs, sees the way his leg is twisted the wrong way –

Something’s pulling on the back of his suit, yanking him from beneath the sheeting and making him cry out as his broken leg is jolted. And then Maine is picking him up by the neck, his Bruteshot in his hand.

“M-Maine?” Wash chokes out, weakly clawing at Maine’s wrist. “W-What-?”

Maine doesn’t answer. Instead, he lifts the Bruteshot up, the blade of it angled for Wash’s face. And Wash’s eyes go wide, the fear flooding through him. This isn’t like Maine. This isn’t like _Matty._ Matty wouldn’t do this –

“Maine, please,” Wash pleads, trying to search for any kind of emotion. But Maine’s visor betrays nothing, and his arm does not falter.

He pulls the Bruteshot back, ready to plunge it into Wash’s neck or face. And in one last desperate attempt, Wash says, “Matty!”

And Maine stops. He just freezes, and the arm holding Wash up is shaking. Wash thinks Maine’s still going to do it, that he’s going to regain his composure and slice open Wash’s throat. But Maine just drops him to the ground, staggers back and just stares at his hand. Then he’s gone, running through the gap in the wall and out into the snow.

Wash tries to follow him. He drags himself over the sheeting, groaning when his leg catches on something and sends splinters of pain right up to his hip. He keeps on crawling, wiping the blood from his eye as he does. He crawls until he’s fighting his way through snow, and he looks up in time to see Maine, on the far side of the cliff the _MOI_ has crashed on, throw Carolina off of the cliff.

He doesn’t scream. He barely even reacts. He can only stare as Carolina’s turquoise and red form disappears into the mist below. He’s breathing heavily as he looks back up just in time to Texas run for the hills, followed by Maine.

And then he rolls onto his back, watches the sky pass overhead. Everything’s crumbling around him, and he makes a mental list of all the things he’s lost: his mother, his sister, his father, his best friend, his entire team and now his sanity. He’s losing his sanity. He can feel it bleeding out onto the ground. The weight of everything that’s happened – the implantation, the crash, his sister fucking falling to her death – sits heavily on him, crushing down on his already broken mind.

He doesn’t fight the darkness when it comes for him. He’s too tired.

 

*

 

He’s twenty-four and he’s been abandoned by everyone. No one came for him whilst he lay in the snow. No one. He knew North and South were out there. He knew York was. Fuck, even Wyoming was out there somewhere. But no one came back for him. They just left him behind.

It’s the Director who finds him.

He wakes up in a white room, in nothing but a pair of too-large white trousers. His chest is a patchwork of stitches, bruises and bandages and his leg is in a cast. There’s a respirator over his mouth, and he pulls it away irritably and tries to push himself into a sitting position, but his chest twinges and his back aches so he falls back against the pillows.

The memories are hazy. He remembers Maine finding him, remembers seeing Carolina fall from the cliff, remembers a familiar face swimming above him as he drifted. And then nothing.

He knows he’s with PFL. He just knows. He knows none of his so-called “friends” came back for him. He knows his sister is dead. He knows that he’s all alone now.

Well, not completely alone.

The Director comes to see him. He’s not followed by the Counsellor for once, yet Wash feels unnerved by that. He’s never had a good relationship with his dad, not once. Having no kind of connection worked well enough for the two of them for twenty-four years. Wash was not about to jeopardize that so soon after seeing his sister die.

And he knew what the Director had done to his sister. He knew how hard their dad had pushed her, how he’d had these experiments, how he’d let Carolina tear himself apart just because she wanted to be better rather than advise against it like a proper father would.

Then again, Leonard Church didn’t know the meaning of ‘proper father’.

“How are you feeling, Agent Washington?” the Director asks as the door slides shut behind them.

“Like shit, _sir,_ ” Wash says, pouring every ounce of venom into the word ‘sir’. He refuses to look at him. He just stares at the ceiling.

“I take it you’re confused about the events surrounding the crash.”

“Not really. I know what went down.”

“Then explain your version of events, Agent.”

“The ship crashed, most of the others had gone rogue and Carolina’s dead.”

He sees the Director’s shoulders stiffen at the mention of Carolina’s death and Wash considers the fact that maybe Leonard Church does care before the Director steels himself again and glares down at Wash. “No, Agent. That’s not what happened.”

“Then, please, do explain. I’m _dying_ to hear.”

The Director stands directly above Wash, making it so that Wash has to turn his head to the side in order to avoid looking at him. “Agent Texas and Agent York broke into the facility. Agent York took out Wyoming before he caused the crash. Agent Maine’s A.I. has gone rampant, and he removed Agent Carolina’s A.I. forcefully before killing her. All Freelancers have gone rogue. Except for you.”

“I would’ve gone if I hadn’t been incapacitated.”

“The others should’ve come back for you. After all, I thought you were a team.”

Wash doesn’t answer. He just glares at the chair sat beside his bed, just trying to ignore the Director’s words.

“They didn’t. They abandoned you, David.”

His head snaps around and he glares at the Director. “Don’t.”

“They left you behind because you’re dead weight, David. They don’t care about you.”

“Stop.”

“But _we_ helped you. And we expect the favour to be returned.”

“Good luck with that.”

The Director sighs. “In light of recent events, a new force has been set up to recover the enhancements and the A.I. of rogue Freelancers.”

“Good for you.”

“We are offering you a chance to be one of our Recovery agents.”

“Why would I do that?”

“That is your only option, Agent. But, due to your incident with Epsilon, we could very easily label you as insane and send you to a secure psychiatric facility and leave you to rot.”

At that moment, Wash decides he’s never truly hated the Director. He’s only ever strongly disliked him. But as he looks down at Washington with the corner of his mouth curled upwards and a look of triumph in his eyes, Wash feels hatred boiling through him hotter than fire. The Director would gladly send his own son to a psychiatric hospital because of an incident that was his own doing.

Cornered, Wash has no choice but to say, “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> traaaaaaaaaaash


	3. Part III

He's thirty-four and he doesn't feel a god damn thing. There’s no stirring in his chest, there’s no lump in his throat. There’s nothing. And he knows there should be something, because most humans would feel something as they looked down at the body of someone they were once good friends with. But he feels nothing as he looks down at York’s bloody armour, not a single thing.

He’s not felt much for the last ten years. He’s been an empty shell, a shadow of the boy from PFL. He often thinks about he pretty much died that day in the snow, because he’s never been the same since. He’d been forced to piece himself back together by himself, trying to get over everything as best as he could with no help. He battled through the grief of losing Carol and Maine, through the anger and bitterness of being left behind. One night found him punching the metal wall of his room over and over again until he heard his knuckle snap. It felt good. The pain anchored him when he was drifting.

He drifts a lot. Sometimes he just sits and stares at something unimportant, loses himself to the memories. He sees something, it triggers a memory, and it takes a while for him to come back again. He remembers the first time he drifted, remembers his fists connecting with the mirror before him and the shards of glass sticking out of his knuckles. The scars are still there.

He gets a lid on the memories of York. He doesn’t let himself drift. He focuses instead on retrieving Delta from York’s suit, focuses on pulling the healing unit from York’s chest plate and setting the charger for the bomb. And then someone’s shooting at him, throwing grenades. He catches a glimpse of the figure, freezes because he’s sure it’s Wyoming –

He gets Delta out of York’s armour just before the body blows up.

 

*

 

He’s thirty-four and he gets shot in the back.

South’s still alive, and she’s waiting for him. North’s dead and his A.I. and enhancement are gone. South tells him how she’d only heard North scream. Again, Wash feels like he should feel something. Again, he doesn’t feel a thing.

He pretends to kill South. They go after the thing that’s hunting them down, that’s killing Freelancers and taking the A.I. He implants Delta in South to protect the A.I., and he instructs her to get to the hunter’s ship just as the hunter opens fire on them. Wash goes to move from behind his cover, to open fire on the hunter, but he hears a shot and a bullet rips through his back.

He doesn’t stop himself from screaming, doesn’t try to stop himself from falling face-first into the dust. He can already feel a puddle of blood pooling beneath him, feel it seeping through the Kevlar suit. He lies still, dazed with pain, barely registers the voices above him. He hears the ship’s engine, distant and fading, the crackle of static from his radio.

_Left behind again,_ he thinks sluggishly.

 

*

 

He’s thirty-five and he shoots South in the head.

It’s sweet. It’s so sweet. He remembers when she shot him in the back, remembers lying in his own blood for twelve hours. His new mission leads him right to South, and he gets to shoot her in the head. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so victorious or happy before.

But there’s something nagging at the back of his mind, something that says that this is wrong, that he shouldn’t be so happy. He lets himself drift – just for second – and he finds himself looking at South, out of armour and curled up on the couch of the rec room of the _MOI_. She’s holding a half-empty beer in one hand, gesturing to him with the other. He sits beside her and they drink their way through the crate and they laugh and exchange stories and it’s the most human he’s ever seen South.

And now he’s looking down at her body. He makes himself stop drifting. He gets a lid on it, just like he did when he saw York.

He just keeps going.

 

*

 

He’s thirty-five and he’s face-to-face with the Meta.

The Meta’s already shot at him, already got him on the floor with blood leaking from the wound just below his ribs. He scrambles backwards, away from the thing that was once Maine. The A.I. are screaming, screaming out for the Alpha. But he’s not there, according to the Counsellor and the Director. Wash smiles and Alpha appears over his shoulder. Alpha joins with the other A.I., and Wash reaches up and slams his fist into the button.

The E.M.P goes off. The facility goes dark.

He passes out.

 

*

 

He’s thirty-seven and he’s in jail.

Everything he did under the Director – his actions in Freelancer, his time in Recovery, _everything_ – mounted up against him and landed him in jail. Everyone who’d worked for Freelancer was in jail for the crimes of the Director, and where was the Director himself? Missing. Vanished off of the face of the earth. Just gone. And Wash had been left behind once again, this time by the man meant to be his father.

But, he thinks, he was never much of a father. He was never there throughout Wash’s childhood, and, when he was, he never had time for Wash. He pushed Carol too hard during PFL, drove her to the age with the competition. Then he let her just die, just get thrown off of the cliff. Never even twitched a finger to help her. And now his second child is answering for his crimes and, yet again, he’s failing to help.

Wash thinks that he should be used to this treatment from his dad. But really, this just takes the fucking cake.

Prison gives Wash a lot of time to drift. He doesn’t stop himself from drifting anymore. He loses himself in memories, both his own and Epsilon’s. Most days, it doesn’t matter if he’s more Epsilon than Wash, because he’s isolated and everyone just refers to him as Prisoner 619-B. He’s not David, he’s not Washington, and he’s not Recovery One anymore. He’s a nameless prisoner, so who cares if he drifts?

But then he gets an idea, stops drifting and manages to speak to the Chairman. The Chairman agrees to let him go after the Epsilon unit, but on one condition.

He takes the Meta with him.

 

*

 

He’s thirty-seven and he’s partnered with the Meta.

The last time they were ever on a mission together, the Meta was still Maine and he got shot in the throat. That was well over fifteen years ago, and a lot has happened in those fifteen years. Wash isn’t sure there’s anything left of Maine beneath that armour. There didn’t seem to be a lot left that day in the snow, the day the Meta threw Carol off of a cliff and almost killed him as well. Wash doubts that Maine’s under there.

They travel to Valhalla together in a jeep. The ride’s unbearably awkward. Wash tries to drift, tries to tune out the man beside him. It doesn’t work well, because drifting brings up a lot of memories of the Meta from when he was Maine. And the Meta keeps growling beneath his breath, and it distracts Wash, keeps him from drifting. He glares at the road ahead, closes his eyes and tries to drift because it’s a fucking long way to Valhalla. But the Meta keeps growling, keeps distracting.

He turns to him, glaring beneath his helmet. “Maine, could you just –“

He freezes. He stops midsentence, because the jeep’s screeched to a stop and because he’s just realised what he’s said. Meta isn’t looking at him. He’s pointedly staring ahead at the road, his fists tightening around the steering wheel. Wash stares down at his knees for a moment, smacks his head back against the back of his seat. _You stupid fucking idiot!_

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, not looking at Meta. The Meta is silent for several moments before the jeep starts moving again.

Wash doesn’t look at Meta the remainder of the way to Valhalla.

 

*

 

He’s thirty-seven and he’s hit by a jeep. He should’ve caught onto the plan sooner, really. Sarge kept repeating the word shotgun over and over again. Wash had thought it was strange, but he hadn’t caught onto the plan. Then he heard the engine rumble. It only connected together in his mind when the wall shattered into a million pieces under the wake of the jeep, which flew straight for him.

His ribs break on impact. He disappears underneath the car, catches onto the bumper. He hears Grif shout, hears him ask how his bumper tastes, and responds by crawling up from beneath the still moving car, shotgun in one hand and battle rifle in the other. He fires at random; barely aware of the fact he’s shooting the glass of the windshield. And then the car swerves and he’s flying through the air. The shotgun is ripped from his hands and he skids to a stop when he hits a pile of Fusion Coils.

There’s blood in his mouth. He groans, pushes himself up to his feet and shakes his head. And then he hears the squealing tires.

“Agent Wash!” the familiar Southern voice shouts.

He looks up, and there’s Sarge, shotgun aimed right at him. “Son of a bitch.“

“You just got –“

Sarge shoots before he finishes his sentence. The Coils explode and Wash blacks out.

 

*

 

He’s thirty-seven and Epsilon escapes.

It takes him a lot to stand up again, to force his limbs to cooperate with him and let him get up. There’s shrapnel in his left elbow that’s a bitch to pull out, and he has to stop for a moment to pull off his helmet and spit blood. There’s already biofoam in his wounds, and he hisses as he feels it expand beneath his skin. He can see the Meta in the distance, chasing something. He wipes blood from his eyes, shoves his helmet back on, widens his eyes when he sees that the Meta’s chasing Epsilon.

He pushes himself forwards, forces himself to run. His hand snakes its way around his chest as he does, gingerly rubbing at the sore spots. The biofoam is meant to set bones as well, but it hasn’t started working on his ribs yet. But he manages to catch up to Maine, follows close behind.

And he sees Epsilon, sees his goal just in his grasp. Then Epsilon sees him –

“WASHINGTON!”

There’s an explosion of some kind, and the hole in the wall is sealed up completely. The Meta charges forwards, takes to hitting the wall repeatedly and firing grenades. It only makes the problem worse.

“Calm down,” Wash mutters. There’s a metallic taste in his mouth and there’s blood in his eye again. “We’ll get him eventually.”

Maine turns to him, growls loudly and punctuates his growls by throwing the Bruteshot down. He’s criticizing Wash, kicking off because Wash managed to get himself taken out by a group of idiots. That’s enough to make Wash’s chest flare, from anger rather than pain this time.

“You go out and kill them all next time then,” he says, pushing at Maine with his free arm. “And you’re the one who couldn’t capture a fucking Forerunner Monitor so don’t even fucking start.”

Maine moves forwards, starts growling again, but the taste of metal is too strong in Wash’s mouth. He yanks his helmet off, spits blood again and wipes at the blood congealing around his eye. He freezes though, because Maine’s just stood there, staring at him.

“What?”

Maine growls.

“You changed too.”

He growls again, but it’s softer this time.

“No, I’m not the same Wash,” he says bitterly, spitting one final time. “Nice observation, Maine.”

There’s another silence before Maine growls again.

“When did I start calling you –“

Wash stops, finally realises what he said and curses. “I’m sorry, I keep forgetting –“

The Meta’s shaking his head, but he growls again: _I’ll let you off this time._ Wash nods, mentally makes a note to stop calling him Maine – to stop _thinking_ of him as Maine – and pulls his helmet back on.

The Meta turns, starts heading back up the hill to the base. They’ve got a prisoner waiting for them there, one that they can question. Wash tries to walk along beside him but stops, bends double so that he can catch his breath. The Meta turns back, looks to Wash and growls.

“I’m fine,” he spits out. “Go on. I’ll catch up in a minute.”

As soon as the Meta is over the hill, he falls down on one knee. He pulls his helmet off again, forces himself to take long, deep breaths. _In, 2-3-4-5. Out, 2-3-4-5._ Each time his ribs expand, it sends another sharp splinter of pain across his chest. He remembers the first time he broke a rib, remembers that he just needs to keep breathing. In, out, in out –

There’s a sharp growl above him.

He glances upwards, sees the Meta stood over him and groans. “I said I’d catch up.”

The Meta growls again.

“I’m fine, honestly. Nothing I’ve never had before.”

The Meta holds a hand out to him. It’s a few moments before Wash takes it.

 

*

 

He’s thirty-seven and he’s looking down at C.T.’s body.

They’re in the desert – him, the Meta and Doc, their prisoner. They’re following a recovery beacon. It’s very weak, but it’s a lead. It might lead them to Epsilon, if they’re lucky. But honestly, Wash doesn’t think it will. He ran out of luck years ago, so he’s not holding out for anything.

And then it turns out to be C.T.’s body buried in the sand, and Wash just thinks the universe is just laughing at him now. So when it comes to it and they have to kill the aliens that find them, Wash finds himself liking the killing a bit more than he usually did.

It’s later on at night when the full force of seeing C.T. hits him.

He finds himself drifting again. His helmet is off, and he’s staring down at the sand without actually looking at it. He finds himself lost in the memories of when he first met C.T., of when she used to go by ‘Connie’ and used to always have a smile on her face and a kind word for Wash. He remembers how she taught him to fight with a knife, how to hack into the _MOI_ ’s mainframe, how to smuggle things onto the ship. He remembers him and Maine and Connie, spending night after night sat up his and Maine’s room just swapping stories and laughing and –

“Hey.”

There’s a hand on his arm. He reacts instinctively, grabs the wrist and twists the arm around, other hand wrapping around the neck of the assailant. It’s only seconds later that he hears the squawking of the assailant and realises that it’s Doc who he’s choking and lets him go quickly.

“Jeez,” Doc gasps out, rubbing at his neck. “What was that about?”

“I’m –“ He stops himself, tells himself not to apologize. “That was your fault.”

“Like hell it was! I just wanted to say that you were crying and you –“

“What?”

Doc stops, frowns at Wash. “You’re crying.”

Wash frowns, tilts his head before he reaches upwards. He rubs at his cheek, eyes going wide when his fingertips come away wet. It’s too late to hide it, but he turns his back on Doc, wipes at his eyes angrily.

“You gonna be okay?”

Doc is right by his shoulder, and Wash is amazed at the fact that there’s actual fucking concern on his face. Wash turns away from him, scoops up his helmet and pulls it on quickly, ignores Doc’s look of concern.

“Where’s the Meta?” Wash asks, trying to stop his voice from shaking.

“H-He’s just scoping out the area, I think,” Doc says. “Wash, are you –“

“Which way did he go?”

“Just up to the top of the dune –“

Wash is gone before he can finish talking.

 

*

 

He’s thirty-seven and he’s hiking through the desert. The Meta’s walking on ahead, Bruteshot strapped to his back. Wash can still see the blood of the aliens dripping from blade, still bright and fresh. The sun glints off of the visor of the Meta’s helmet when he turns, half-glances at Wash and Doc, before he looks forwards again and spurs on ahead.

Wash walks behind with Doc, keeps a good thirty metres between himself and the Meta. He’s actually walking behind Doc, dragging his feet and struggling to stay awake. He didn’t sleep well the night before, not with the memories of Connie waiting for him when he closed his eyes. He thought he was better at keeping a lid on the memories, but obviously he wasn’t.

Doc falls back, falls into line with Wash. He keeps glancing at Wash, and Wash can tell he wants to ask something. He guesses it’s about what happened the night before, so he speaks before Doc can even get the chance to open his mouth.

“How’s he doing?” he asks, gesturing to the Meta.

“What?”

“How’s he doing physically? You did another scan, right?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“So how is he?”

“He’s fine.”

Wash just nods.

“How long have you guys known each other?”

“I’m not having this conversation.”

“C’mon, Wash. We can’t just walk along in silence.”

“Who says we can’t?”

Doc doesn’t answer. Instead, Wash hears him sigh. He lets the silence drag out for several moments before he says, “Nineteen years.”

Doc’s head snaps up sharply. “What?”

“We’ve known each other nineteen years.”

“Wow, seriously?”

“Met each other in basic.”

“So he wasn’t always… y’know…”

Wash watches the Meta, remembers back when he was just Matty, Matty from New Jersey. Matty, who used to own a DS and used to spend every night playing Pokémon. Matty, who refused to leave Wash behind when he was down and who carried Wash back to base and risked his life for him. Matty, who –

_Stop it_ , he tells himself. _Just stop._

“No. He… H-He wasn’t,” Wash says, grip tightening around his rifle.

“So, what’s up with the voice thing? Does he choose to be a mute?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“But did he always growl or did he have a voice?”

Wash remembers Matty’s laugh, the kind words he said as Wash was laying half-dead on a stretcher, the way he used to have a witty comeback –

“He had a voice,” Wash says.

“So what happened?”

They walk another ten steps. “He got shot in the throat.”

Doc stops dead, stops and stares right at Wash, who stops and stares right back. “You’re kidding?”

“No.”

“Man.”

Wash starts walking again. Doc jogs to keep up with him, still jabbering away. “He got shot in the throat and he lived?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.” There’s a beat, another couple of steps. “Where you there?”

_White armour stained red. More blood than he’s ever seen before. He kneels down beside him, presses his hands to the wound to try and stop the bleeding._ “Yeah.” _Maine’s still awake, eyes locked onto Wash._ “I was there. We… used to be best friends, before…”

Doc seems to understand, nods and looks to the Meta, who’s pulling further and further ahead. “Is that when he became… the Meta?”

“No.” Wash remembers being there, seeing Maine falling the pieces but never picking up on it, never once stopping to try and help. “It was a while after. He was given this A.I. The Freelancers each got to get their own A.I. fragment implanted. Our leader, Agent…” He stops, takes a deep breath. “Agent Carolina gave hers up to Maine so that he could communicate with us. Sigma – his fragment – he, well, he drove Maine off the edge. Made him what his is now.”

Doc nods again. “What happened to your A.I.?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said each Freelancer got an A.I. What happened to yours?”

The ghost pain at the back of his neck starts up. He remembers the screaming, the chanting of ‘Allison’, over and over again in his head. He reaches upwards, rubs at the back of his neck, traces his fingers over the area where the scar sits. “It self-destructed.”

“What?”

“The moment they implanted it, it self-destructed. In layman’s terms, it committed suicide in my head.”

Doc’s silent for several moments, before Wash hears him make a little scoffing sound. “Man, you guys are fucked up.”

“That’s putting it lightly.”

 

*

 

He’s thirty-seven and there’s a shotgun in his face.

They track a recovery beacon to Sidewinder, find Epsilon in a new body, lying face-down in the snow. And then Texas springs her ambush and the snow around Wash, the Meta and Doc explodes. He blacks out, wakes up and sees Texas heading straight for him. There’s a rifle lying just out of reach. He dives for it. A boot comes down on his wrist, a shotgun barrel pressed to his head.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” he says, looking up at Texas’s visor.

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” she says, a hint of a laugh in her voice. “You’ll make me cry. Where’s the Director?”

He feels angry at the mere mention of the man. “How would I know that?”

She tuts, tightens a finger around the trigger. “Wrong answer.”

The Meta charges in out of nowhere, sends Texas flying. It gives Wash time to recover, time to sit up and pull the capture unit from his back. He stands, runs to where Texas is firing round after round from two submachine guns at the Meta. He slashes at her with the unit’s spike, kicks away one of her guns. She ducks under his swing, kicks it from his hand. His heart falls into his stomach when he sees that it’s spinning towards the edge of the cliff.

“NO!” He dives forwards, catches it before it goes over the edge and breathes a sigh of relief. He turns around, sees that Meta has Texas pinned to the ground. She kicks upwards, knocks Meta back into the wall of ice behind just as Wash catches up to him. Texas gets back to her feet, holds out something that looks like a detonator. And then the mountain behind them explodes and a landslide ensues.

Swearing loudly, Wash sets off at a run, capture unit in hand. He takes another swipe at Texas. She ducks, kicks him in the stomach and knocks him down. The capture unit leaves his hands, spins through the air. Meta catches it, charges straight at Texas. Icicles fall around him as he runs to where the Meta’s taking a swipe at Texas, who ducks yet again. Wash jumps, tries to kick at Texas’s head, misses and gets pounded into the snow for his troubles.

Wash gets to his feet, pulls his rifle from his back and charges at Texas, firing at Texas. A boulder lands behind her and she kicks it right at them. Wash ducks down, watches as the Meta vaults off of the top of it. Texas intercepts him mid-air, catches him by the chin and throws him right at Wash, who dives aside and takes a shot at Texas. She ducks behind an icicle and there’s another set of explosions a second later. Wash’s stomach churns when he sees the cliff breaking apart, collapsing into the water below. Texas dives out from her cover, runs for the safety of the cliff. Wash shoots at her, grins when he hears her scream. But the ground around him is sloping downwards, splintering away and falling into the water.

“RUN!” he shouts to the Meta. They sprint across the shelf, eyes on the ledge that moves further away each second. Wash leaps over a small gap, skids to a stop at the edge of the shelf. The Meta keeps going, uses his Bruteshot as an ice-pick and scales the side of the cliff, leaving Wash by himself on the shelf.

But Doc’s stood atop the cliff, waving the tow hook of their Warthog above his head. Wash waves his arms over his head, signals to Doc to throw it. But the throw falls short and Wash has to dive for it, almost missing the rope. But he catches it at the last second, pulls himself up to the ledge.

“That was the _second_ worst throw ever,” he grunts, lifting himself onto the ledge. “Of all time.”

“What do you want from me?” Doc asks. “I ran track in high school.”

Wash rolls his eyes, looks over to the Meta just as Texas takes a swipe at him. There’s blood on the snow, and Meta growls, aims at Texas and fires, finally knocking her to the ground. Capture unit in hand, he pulls Texas to her feet by her neck and stabs the capture unit straight through her visor. Wash cringes as she spasms and twitches, finally falling still moments later. Maine tosses her body aside, and it lands right in front of Epsilon, who’s finally back on his feet.

“Let her outta that thing!” Epsilon shouts, gesturing to the unit.

“We can’t, the unit’s falling,” Wash says. “It’s over. You’re coming with us.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you! We can fight you?”

“We can?” Doc asks.

“We will!”

Doc sighs. “Aw, great.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Wash says, holding his hand out to Meta. “Give me the memory unit.”

There’s silence. Wash doesn’t even hear the Meta growling. He turns, sees the Meta just staring at the memory unit in his hands. He looks up at Wash, and then back to the unit again. Wash frowns before he connects the dots. “Meta! No, don’t –“

The Meta ignores him, reaches round and attaches the unit to his back. As he does, he activates his cloaking device and disappears.

“Dammit!” Wash looks to Doc, who looks like he’s hyperventilating. “Doc, you have to protect Epsilon!”

“What do I do?” Doc shouts back, panic in his voice.

“RUN!”

He’s knocked the ground a second later, rolls over onto one knee and sees the snow shifting near him. He throws himself forwards, wraps his arms around the Meta’s neck and tries to hold him back. Doc and Epsilon are still just standing there, staring at Wash and the Meta.

“I’ll try and hold him!” he shouts. “Run!”

The Meta bucks, throws him off. He skids to a stop, pivots around and shoots at the Meta. The Meta retaliates and shoots back. Wash ducks out of the way of the first shot, shoots two more times. The snow beside him explodes and he rolls out of the way, looks up just as the grenade comes for him.

It catches him right in the shoulder, blows him back against the cliff. He shouts out, feeling the shrapnel penetrating both the armour and the Kevlar suit. He falls face down in the snow, snakes an arm across his chest and grips his injured shoulder tightly. When he pushes himself up, there’s already blood in the snow. He glances down, bile rising when he sees the shrapnel sticking out of his shoulder, the shoulder pads dangling uselessly, the torn up Kevlar suit and blood soaking through. He looks up and sees the Meta heading straight for him. He backs away, presses his back up against the cliff, one hand on his rifle.

As the Meta advances on him, reloading his Bruteshot as he does, Wash sighs. “I knew you’d do this, Meta. I just can’t believe –“

He spots something over the Meta’s shoulder, squints at it. “Can’t believe –“

Both he and the Meta are watching the smoking Pelican heading straight for them. Wash’s eyes widen, because he can see the all-too-familiar orange soldier sat at the controls, and there’s no way that group of idiots made it all the way here. “I can’t believe it.”

The Pelican’s heading straight for them. Wash jumps up, dives out of the way whilst the Meta goes the other way. He rolls behind a tree, smacks into Epsilon, who’s already hidden there. The Pelican slams into the ground, skids to a stop right in front of the tree. Wash steps out from behind the tree, shakes his head at the sight of the crashed Pelican.

“I would say that was cavalry,” he says, one hand over his bleeding chest. “But I’ve never seen a line of horses crash into the battlefield from outer space before.”

“Hey,” Epsilon says, getting to his feet shakily. “Is it possible for a memory fragment out of an artificial intelligence program enclosed inside a robotic body to piss its pants? Because I’m pretty sure I just did that.”

Wash rolls his eyes. “Come on. Let’s go see how many of your friends survived that.”

“You know, they’re not really my friends.”

“That’s okay, I’m sure none of them really survived.”

“Wow, you’re a ray of sunshine.”

“I know.”

Amazingly, all of them survived. Sarge, Caboose, Grif, Simmons and a soldier in turquoise armour that Washington takes to be Tucker – the member of Blue Team he never got to meet – are all stood together in a huddle. Sarge turns, kicks at their Pelican and Wash is amazed to see it fall off the cliff.

Epsilon reaches the group first, asks where Texas is. He ignores Wash when he explains about the memory unit, gets excited when he finds the unit in the snow.

“Let her out,” he demands.

“We rigged it so it’s one way,” Wash says. “We didn’t want you to escape again.”

“Well, _un_ rig it!”

“I need to get it to a lab, somewhere with tools.”

“Simmons?”

All eyes fall on the maroon soldier, who holds his hands up. “Hey, he’s the expert. I don’t know what I can do to help.”

“And it’s in no condition to move,” Wash says, gesturing to the memory unit. “If it locks down before I can open it, she’ll be trapped in there.”

“We should try something,” Simmons says, rubbing the back of his head.

Wash turns to Epsilon. “If I let her out, you have to come with me.”

“Yes, fine, just get her out.”

Wash gets Tucker and Caboose to go to the base and look for tools whilst the Reds set about looking for anything with power. Just as Sarge runs off with Grif and Simmons in tow, Epsilon turns to Wash and says, “I can get her out.”

“What? No.”

“It’s my only option.”

“I need you Epsilon.” Wash is pretty sure his breath his hitching, sure the pitch of his voice is getting higher. “You’re my only ticker out of this mess. If you get stuck in there, they’ll never believe me. I’m _not_ going back to prison.”

“I can do it.”

“No, I won’t let you.”

“You can’t stop me. I have to help her. She’s here because of us.”

Wash frowns. “Because of me?”

“Not you, _us._ Me, and Alpha, and the Director.”

“You’ve started to remember.”

“I found some journals from the Director. She’s someone from his life. Someone he loved…”

Wash remembers. He knows who he’s talking about, knows who Texas is all of a sudden. The memories dig themselves up, both his own and Epsilon’s. A blonde haired woman in a Marine uniform, telling him she hated goodbyes. “Allison. Her name was Allison.”

“Allison… When they made Alpha, she came back. She was a by-product of the process.”

“She’s just a shadow.”

“ _Don’t_ call her that! She died in her real life, and that’s all the Director ever remembered of her. So now, no matter how tough she is, how hard she fights, she’s always going to _fail_! Because that’s what she’s based on. No matter what’s she doing, or what she’s trying to accomplish, _just_ when he goal is within her reach, it gets yanked away. Every. Single. Time. Can you imagine what that’s like?”

Just as he says that, the memory unit suddenly lifts into the air. The Meta uncloaks, revealing that the memory unit is still attached to his back. Wash is starting to think the whole failure thing runs in the family.

“I think I’m getting the idea,” he says to Epsilon.

“Uh oh.”

The Meta turns, growling loudly. He sees Epsilon and slams his fist into the A.I.’s visor. Wash dives forwards, receives a fist to the face himself. A second later, the Meta is digging his Bruteshot out of the snow and holding it up, firing at Wash. Wash’s visor cracks when one shot catches him on the side of his head, knocking him back. Vision blurring, he staggers to his feet and loads a new magazine into his rifle just as Epsilon leaps forwards, gets blasted back a second later. Out of the corner of his eye, Wash can see the Reds and Blues standing at the edge of the field, surrounding the downed Epsilon.

The Meta fires at him again. Wash dives aside, gets to his feet and draws his knife in time to parry the Bruteshot’s blade. He slices at the Meta, draws blood from his shoulder but the Meta falls back, cloaking himself as he does. Wash watches the ground, sees the tell-tale footsteps in the snow. He flips the knife in over in his hands like Connie once taught him to do, holds it by the tip, leans backwards and puts all of his weight into the throw.

It catches the Meta in the shoulder, and he hears the roar of pain as the Meta uncloaks. He pulls his rifle from his back, ready to take a shot at Meta. But the Meta shoots and the grenade hits him before Wash can do anything. It catches him right in the stomach, makes him scream out as it burns through the Kevlar suit and into his skin. He flies back, smacks into the Warthog and falls down into the snow.

He knows he’s not getting up. He doesn’t even bother. He just stays where he’s fallen, propped up against the Warthog with shrapnel in his chest. He yanks his helmet off, tosses it aside. There’s blood in his mouth again, but he doesn’t even try to spit it out. He just lets it run over his lips and down his chin.

Breathing’s too hard. He knows those knocks to the chest will have made his still healing ribs all the more worse. He forces himself to take deep breaths, ignores the painful twinges and just breathes. In, 2-3-4-5. Out, 2-3-4-5.

He can hear the others fighting, knows it’s a losing battle. The Meta’s too strong, even for him, even for _Texas_. Texas was better than all of the Reds and Blues combined. If she couldn’t fight him, how were they meant to?

Wash’s eyes fall on the tow hook on the Warthog, lying in the snow beside him. He reaches out with his good arm, lifts the tow hook up. His move from the tow hook to the Warthog and back again, a plan formulating in his mind.

Tucker’s fighting the Meta by himself. Sarge runs to Wash, falls to his knees beside him and tries to get Wash back on his feet.

“Wash! Come on!” Sarge says. “He needs help.”

“I can’t, I’m done,” Wash sighs, looking down at the tow hook in his hands. He holds it up to Sarge. “Take this. You know what to do.”

For a few moments, Sarge seems confused. But he eventually seems to understand, nods and takes the tow hook from Wash’s hands. Wash nods back at him and watches as Sarge charges at the Meta.

He slides sideways. He finds himself lying in the snow, barely aware of what’s going on around him.

_This is it,_ he thinks.

He comforts himself with the knowledge that he’s going to see Carol at last.

 

*

 

He’s thirty-seven and he’s alive.

He doesn’t want to be alive. He’s so done with life at this point. He just wants to die, just wants to give up and lie down and succumb to whatever wound he’s been given. But they kept him alive, bandaged him and patched him up and refused to let him give in to the abyss. He knows he shouldn’t, but he hates them for it. Hates that they dragged him into the base, hates that Doc operated on him and got all the shrapnel out of his stomach, hates that he stitched up every single wound and even performed CPR when it seemed things were going south.

To make things worse, the Meta’s dead. No, _Matty_ is dead. Wash knew it would happen, but it still just shocks him to the core. Sarge tells him the moment he wakes up, the moment he opens his eyes and struggles to sit up. He just stares at the Red for a few moments before he lies back down, stares up at the ceiling in silence and just lets the tears fall down his face. Really, Matty died a very long time ago, back when he became the Meta. But now he’s gone for good, just like Carol and York and North and everyone else good in his life.

Epsilon’s stuck in the capture unit. He went in after Texas, Simmons tells him. Went in and didn’t come back out. Wash lashes out with his good arm when they tell him, slams his fist into the wall until there’s blood running from his knuckles. He’s got nothing now. Matty’s gone, his family is gone, and the thing that would’ve kept him out of prison is gone now too. He’s got nothing left to live for. He almost considers going for the pistol holstered at Simmons’s side.

He lies and stares at the ceiling for a long time, barely listens to the conversation going on. It’s only when he hears his name mentioned that he starts paying attention.

“So, what do we do with Washington?” Tucker is asking. His back is to Wash, as is Simmons’s and Grif’s. Doc’s sat beside Wash, fiddling with his helmet. He glances upwards when Tucker speaks, frowns at the turquoise soldier.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Well, we can’t exactly keep a psychopath.”

“What do you propose we do with him?”

“We could just kill him,” Sarge suggests.

It goes silent in the room. He thinks he imagines it, but he’s sure that Doc twitches in his peripheral vision, almost moves into a defensive position over Wash. Everyone’s looking at Wash now, but he just keeps staring at the ceiling. Honestly, he’d rather they just shoot him now and be done with it.

“No way,” Doc says. Wash is surprised to hear the slight snarl in the man’s voice. He’d never of thought Doc was capable of a snarl. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Tucker asks.

“Because he’s a living, breathing, human being.”

“He fucking killed Donut.” All eyes go to Simmons, whose fists are shaking down by his sides. “He just shot him point-blank in the stomach. He’s not a human, he’s a fucking murderer. Why should we let him live?”

Doc takes a shaky breath, pushes himself into a standing position. “Listen, I’ve been this guy’s prisoner for the last couple of weeks –“

“Which is why it makes no sense for you to defend him,” Tucker snaps. “I thought you of all people would want him dead.”

“I would never wish anyone dead,” Docs says sharply. “And I’ve gotten to know Wash these last couple of weeks. He’s not a monster like you all think he is.”

“So what is he?”

Doc takes a deep breath. No one notices that Wash has stopped staring at the ceiling, his gaze shifting instead to watch Doc as he squared his shoulders. “The other day, we talked about the Meta – I mean, Agent Maine. Wash told me that he wasn’t always like that, that he wasn’t always a bloodthirsty killing machine. And I got me thinking –“

“Don’t sprain yourself,” Sarge mutters.

“– if Met – _Maine_ was once a normal man, then Wash once was too. It’s just that the circumstances turned them into, well, monsters.”

“I still say noes goes, Doc,” Sarge says with a sigh.

“He’s a psychopath,” Tucker spits. “We can’t trust him.”

“Then just fucking shoot me already.”

All eyes go to Wash, who’s gone back to staring at the ceiling. “Just shoot me, because I’m done listening to this.”

There’s silence in the base for a few moments, broken only by a timid voice saying, “Tucker?”

Caboose is stood in the doorway, holding a cobalt coloured helmet in his hands. It’s Epsilon’s helmet. Caboose runs his fingers over the visor, turns it over in his hands nervously and shifts from foot to foot. “T-Tucker, can I talk to you, for a second?”

“What d’you want, Caboose?”

“Well, well, see, ah… I think I have a solution to your problem.”

“Uh…” Tucker glances at Sarge, who just shrugs. “Okay, shoot.”

“Well, you know how Church doesn’t need his body now?”

That sobers the mood in the room. Wash can hear the tremble in Caboose’s voice; he can see the way in which his hands shake as he turns the helmet in his hands over and over again.

“We can give Agent Washingtub Church’s armour and he can pretend to be Church.”

No one takes that well.

“So you mean we have to keep this psycho?” Tucker shouts.

“No fucking way, dude!” Grif says, shaking his head.

“He just asked us to put a bullet in his head,” Tucker says, glaring down at Wash. “I think we should honour a dying man’s wishes.”

“We have to help him!” Caboose says.

“Why?” Tucker throws his arms out as he shouts. “Why do we have to help him?”

“He helped us.”

That makes Tucker stall.

“He saved me from the mean guy once and gave me the glowing Christmas light when I was hurt –“

“The healing unit?” Doc asks.

“Yeah! And he saved us from the mean guy in the end! That’s what matters, right?”

Tucker actually looks like he’s reconsidering, but Simmons shakes his head and walks out of the base, closely followed by Grif. Tucker sighs, rubs at the back of his neck and gently takes the helmet from Caboose’s hands. He turns, tosses the helmet to Doc.

“Get him suited up.”

 

*

 

He’s thirty-seven and he’s pretending to be someone he’s not.

In a way, it kind of feels right. He’s had Epsilon’s memories for fifteen years, knows who the A.I. is and what he’s based off of. He knows what Epsilon has seen – what the _Director_ has seen, because he’s known all along that Alpha was based off of the Director himself, and that Epsilon was Alpha’s memories and therefore his father’s memories.

One of the things that never clicked was just who Texas was. It never pieced itself together in his mind, because the memories of Allison were memories he buried as deep as possible. But he’s finally connected it all together, finally realised that Allison was the woman in the photos from his childhood, the woman who’d been photographed mid-laugh, the woman whom the UNSC flag Carol kept beneath her bed belonged to.

Allison was his mother, and he understands why his father ignored him, why Carol dyed her hair as soon as she could. And he wishes he didn’t.

He stands in the base at Sidewinder, staring at the cobalt helmet. Both Doc and Caboose had to help him put Epsilon’s armour on since he could barely move his right arm. Caboose spent five minutes shaking his head over and over again, muttering about how Wash was missing something. Then he disappeared for a minute and reappeared holding an actual tub of yellow paint and Wash could only stare as Caboose painted the yellow highlights onto the cobalt amour.

He’d never admit it, but he feels better with the highlights. It actually helps to remind himself that he’s David Church and not Leonard Church. It helps him differentiate between the memories.

He doesn’t put the helmet on just yet. He’s helmetless as he follows Doc out into the snow, rubbing at his aching ribs as he does. Tucker’s waiting just beyond the base’s entrance. He shoves an unloaded rifle into Wash’s hands.

“It’d look weird if you were unarmed,” he says when Wash arches an eyebrow. “But I don’t trust you to not kill us.”

He guesses he understands that.

Red team stays as far away from him as possible. He understands that too. He saves them the trouble and walks to the edge of the cliff, stares down into the water below. He can’t help but think of Maine, of Matty, and feel sorry for him, surviving so much and dying in what Wash’s considers to be the worst way possible: drowning.

He supposes, in a way, it’s the best thing for Matty. He knows that the UNSC wouldn’t have been kind with his body. They wouldn’t have sent it back to family – if he had any – and they would not have buried it. Being lost in the ocean… Wash supposes that’s better than whatever the UNSC would’ve done.

At the same time, he hates that that was the fate that had to come to Matty. He hates that he won’t have the chance to bury Matty himself, hates that this was _his_ idea. He hates the fact that he’s now the last one left, that Matty and Carol and York and North and everyone else is gone.

He doesn’t stop himself from crying.

 

*

 

He’s thirty-seven and he’s enduring what has to be the most awkward drive of his life.

He’s not actually allowed to drive. Doc insists he’s not in the right mind for it, so Tucker jumps in the driver’s seat instead. Caboose opts to sit in the back with Doc which leaves Wash sat up front with Tucker. Neither of them seems too pleased by the arrangement.

But Wash finds that he can drift. No one talks to him, so he puts his head back against the seat, closes his eyes and drifts. He finds himself in his own memories, lost in the days where he was David and Maine was Matty. He loses himself in simpler times, loses himself in the night where he and Maine drank themselves into unconsciousness after a mission. He remembers Maine’s laugh, Carol telling him she’s only ever seen Maine laugh or smile when he’s around. He remembers the first and only time they kissed –

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

He snaps out of the memories. He sits upright, sees the aqua figure standing in the middle of the road. Tucker shouts out again, swerves to avoid the person. And then there’s an explosion beneath the right tire.

Wash slams his forehead against the dashboard when the car flips. The car comes down on its right side, slams his injured shoulder. He hears Tucker shout out, hears Doc scream. The car rolls over and over, the glass windows cave in and he hears another scream. And the car finally rolls to a stop.

He feels sick. He’s sure that knock on the head has given him a concussion. He stays in his seat for a few moments, dazed and shocked. He only notices that the jeep’s upside down seconds later when he yanks his helmet off, notices the blood running into his hair rather than down his face. Groaning, he fumbles with his seatbelt, undoes it and falls straight onto his shoulder.

Biting back a scream, Wash forces himself to crawl out of the wreck. His blurry eyes adjust; he takes in the car parts littered around and the purple-armoured body lying nearby. Doc. He crawls, drags himself by the elbows to the immobilized body. Gritting his teeth, he pushes himself into a sitting position, pushes Doc over onto his front. The medic isn’t injured. Wash consoles himself with the knowledge that Doc is only knocked out.

There’s a blue figure stumbling around in his peripheral. He watches as Caboose staggers, eyes widening at the angle at which Caboose’s leg sits. He glances around, sees Tucker still strapped into the driver’s seat of the jeep. His helmet has come off, and there’s glass cutting into the skin of his forehead. He’s not moving, his eyes rolled shut. Wash knows that’s not good.

Caboose suddenly falls to the ground, head cracking to the side in time with the sound of metal hitting metal. A person in aqua armour stands over him, magnum in hand. They turn to look at Wash. His stomach churns at the sight of the Rogue helmet. A memory flickers, a red-headed woman with the exact same armour, laughing and calling him little brother –

They stalk over, grab him by his chest plate and pull him up. But then they stop dead, hold their gaze with Wash. And then he’s falling back, throwing out his good arm to catch himself and the person is staggering back, and Wash can hear them taking loud, haggard breaths.

“No way,” the person says. They’re a woman, and he knows that voice anywhere.

He can feel his mind cracking, everything he’s ever been told not making sense. They told him she was dead, that Maine had tossed her off of cliff. Fifteen years he’d believed she was dead and yet here she was, against all odds.

She pulls her helmet off, and he can only stare slack-jawed at the unruly red hair, the green eyes and the familiar freckles. There’s a scar crossing her left cheek that he’d never seen before, and her natural hair colour is coming through. But she’s still the same person he always knew, standing before him with a mirroring look of shock.

It takes him a few seconds to find his voice, to simply choke out, “Carol?”

She smiles. There are tears in her eyes. “Hey little brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the next chapter will be carolina's experiences during those fifteen years, which is why i've extended this fic from 5 to 7 chapters
> 
> hope you enjoyed this
> 
> sorry for the longer wait for this one as well


	4. Part IV

She’s twenty-seven and there are three minds in her head.

It’s a weird thing when she wakes up. She feels too awake. Everything sounds too loud, too sharp. She can hear things she shouldn’t hear, the breathing of Maine, the heartbeats of York and Wyoming and Wash. A sudden, minute shift in the bed sheets, the faint whirrs of machines. She feels the minds of Eta and Iota moving with her own, listening to what she listens to.

She lies and waits, waits for them to speak.

**Carolina?**

It’s Iota. She knows, because Iota has the softest voice. Iota is compassion, she remembers. Iota is compassion and was meant to be David’s fragment. Eta is greed and was assigned to South. She thinks how it’s perfect; how the A.I.s would’ve been perfect for the Freelancers they’d originally been assigned to.

**Carolina?** Iota asks again. She can feel his apprehension seeping into her own mind.

_I can hear you,_ she responds.

**Are you okay?**

_I’m fine, Iota._

That’s good.

It’s Eta this time. Eta, whose voice is much more effeminate but much more robotic. Where Iota speaks in soft tones and laces kindness and concern into every word, Eta speaks monotonously. It reminds her of Gamma, of his robotic and emotionless voice.

Are you ready to stand, Agent Carolina?

**Eta, do you think that’s wise?**

I believe so.

**Eta –**

What do you think, Agent Carolina?

She thinks for a minute, listens to the mumbled conversations and the heartbeats above her. She’s almost afraid to open her eyes. Afraid, because she feels weird. She shouldn’t feel this awake, this _alive_. She shouldn’t hear the things she hears, so she’s scared about what she’ll see, about how bright things are with three minds if things are too loud.

She suddenly regrets this.

It’s too late to change your mind, Agent Carolina.

_I know, Iota._

Then open your eyes.

She doesn’t.

Why did you chose to have us both?

_I wanted to be better._

Then get up and _be better_. The number one spot at the top of the leader board is meant for you. Go and get it back.

Iota is right. Agent Texas didn’t deserve to be at the top of the leader board. She hadn’t been at PFL as long as Carolina, hadn’t worked half as hard to earn her position as Carolina has. Carolina wants to be at the top, wants to be the best.

She wants a match.

 

*

 

She’s twenty-seven and facing off against Texas.

She’s silent, ignoring York as he stands and talks beside her, tries to coach her in how her first match post implantation will feel. It’s nothing she doesn’t already know. She’s done her A.I. theory coursework; she knows more than York does despite having his own A.I.

Eta and Iota are tapped into her nervous system, into her brain. They move as one, three minds controlling one body. When she opened her eyes in Recovery, everything was too bright. She sees colours she shouldn’t see, hues she’d never seen before. There’s hundreds more colours than she’d ever seen before, colours she didn’t have names for.

**Tetrachromacy** , Iota says.

She asks York and Wyoming about it on the way down to the training floor, asks them if they hear too much and see too clearly. They say they don’t, ask if she’s feeling okay. She doesn’t respond, listens to Eta reassure her it’s just a side effect of having two A.I. instead of one. Having six eyes meant seeing better, six ears hearing better.

Eta and Iota materialize for the first time. They project themselves over her shoulder, both in armour. One silver, one gold. Iota is the golden A.I., a warmer colour for a warmer personality. Eta is silver, seems to stand taller and prouder. They disappear almost as quickly as they appear, preferring to just ride along in her mind than project themselves for everyone to see. Honestly, she prefers just having their voices in her head than out loud for everyone to hear.

She narrows her eyes at Texas, sure that the agent is narrowing her eyes right back. She’s ready, ready to sink her claws into Texas and rip her to pieces with the help of her A.I. Omega is rage and rage is strong, but one A.I. versus two A.I. has an obvious outcome.

She’s so close, so close to getting what she wants. And it’s all yanked away. Pulled out of her grip with the utterance of a single word.

“ _ALLISON!”_

The A.I., Eta and Iota, lose it. They scream and she screams with them. Falls to her knees and grips the side of her head, screams and screams as they scream and writhe inside her. Screams, pulls her helmet off and throws it aside. Screams as they repeat Allison’s name over and over, show her things she doesn’t want to see. She sees a familiar woman, sees her smiling and dancing and all the while the A.I. scream, call out for her and refuse to listen to her pleads.

She rolls over onto her back, pulls at her hair and bites down on her tongue. _Stop stop STOP!_

They can’t hear her, can’t hear her pathetic pleas over the sound of their own pain. They won’t stop, won’t cease wallowing in grief for a woman she thinks she knows.

She hears Texas’s voice, opens her eyes and sees the agent knelt over her. Texas’s fist collides with her face, and the pain stops.

 

*

 

She’s twenty-seven and her brother’s gone insane.

It takes her a week to piece herself back together, to get Eta and Iota back under control. A week lying in the dark, trying to make sense of the voices and the visions. She gets Eta to stop crying, convinces Iota to calm down. She finds that Eta loves colours, finds that he starts naming colours when he’s nervous. Iota taps into Carolina’s nervous system when she’s anxious, breathes with Carolina. _In, 2-3-4-5. Out, 2-3-4-5._

She gets them to pull themselves together, and finally wakes up.

York’s right there, holding her hand whilst Delta shimmers over his shoulder. She stares at the flickering A.I.; listens to Eta name all the shades of green that Delta is until he runs out of colours because she sees too many. York smiles, the light shines off of his pale face. She sees every detail in his scar, sees the different tones of his white eye, sees the stubble on his chin and jawline. She takes a breath, pushes herself into a sitting position. York puts an arm across her back, helps her up.

“How you feeling?” he asks. His voice is too softer, softer than it normally is.

“I-I’m…” She wants to say fine. She wants to lie, tell him she’s okay. But she feels like she’s unravelling from the inside out, feels like she’s slowly falling to pieces. So she chooses not to respond, chooses instead to look around the empty Recovery. Her eyes fall on the bed at the other end of the ward, at the curtain surrounding it. She frowns at shadow of the prone form, looks to York.

“Who’s that?” she asks. York looks over his shoulder at the curtained figure. She sees his face fall, sees Delta flicker. York doesn’t answer, opts for staring at his knees instead. “York –“

“ _Agent Carolina,_ ” Delta interrupts. “ _The Director decided to put your brother up for implantation immediately following your breakdown on the training room floor._ ”

Her stomach twists.

“ _He was given the Epsilon fragment, a rather…_ unstable _fragment. He self-destructed the moment he was integrated with Agent Washington’s mind._ ”

Her throat closes up. Iota’s immediately on the ball, counting with her. **In, 2-3-4-5. Out-2-3-4-5.**

“Help me up,” she says, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

“Whoa, whoa, hey. You can’t –“

“I need to see him.”

“Carolina –“

“York, he’s my brother.”

York sets his jaw and nods, wraps an arm across her back and takes her hand so that he can help her up.

“ _York, I do not think –“_

“Can it, D.”

York helps her stand, lets her lean against him as he walks her to the curtained bed. She yanks aside the curtain, feels her stomach churn when she sees Wash, in armour and unconscious. He’s ashen-faced, frowning and clenching his fists in his sleep. She sees the scratches along his neck, curling up to his jawline, sees the way they start at the back of his neck – where Epsilon would’ve been implanted.

“What the hell happened?” she asks as she falls in the seat beside David’s bed, taking his armoured hand as she does.

“He went mad,” York says. “Tried clawing Epsilon out with his bare hands. You can see the result of that.”

She takes a shuddering breath, covers her eyes with her free hand and forces herself not to cry.

**Just breathe, Carol.**

_This is my fault,_ she thinks. _Iota, you were meant to be his. If I hadn’t done this, he would’ve gotten you and he would’ve been okay. He wouldn’t have gone mad if I hadn’t of –_

**Stop panicking. None of this is your fault.**

It’s the Director’s.

Both Carol and Iota freeze at that.

**Iota, it’s not our place to insinuate like that.**

The Director _let_ this happen. He knew full well what would happen if Carol took the two of us instead of letting Washington and South take us.

_Eta –_

No, Carol. He _knew._

_Stop, Eta. Please._

Eta goes quiet. But she knows she’ll have to listen to him all night long.

But for now, she sits in silence at her brother’s side, watching his chest rise and fall slowly.

 

*

 

She’s twenty-seven and she can’t sleep.

It took a lot to calm down her own mind these days, never mind calling down another two minds on top of that. So she stays awake instead, stares out of the window in her quarters and watches as the stars go by slowly. Eta takes to naming each and every star they pass whilst Iota hums at the back of her mind, silent and resting.

She rubs at her forehead, brushes the hair out of her eyes. She should be training. She should be tearing shit up. Instead, she’s trying to hold onto her sanity, trying to hold onto reality. And, she doesn’t know why, but she’s sat with the box of trinkets she keeps beneath her bed. Her mom’s UNSC flag, David’s first pair of glasses, her old gymnastics medals and a thick stack of photos.

The oldest photos sit at the bottom, ones of her mother and father. Her mother training with a sniper rifle, posing with the rest of her squad, dancing with her father in a nightclub. Her dad – younger than she’d ever seen him – flipping off the camera from his desk, holding a baby Carol in his hands, pushing the camera away as he steals a kiss from her mother. And then there were the pictures of her, showing her mother teaching her to walk and her at her first gymnastics competition and holding up her first report card (all A’s), grinning widely with braces in her teeth.

Her favourites were the ones of her and David, the ones where he’s holding up the skateboard she bought him and the day he turned thirteen and – her personal favourite – the one of her holding him as a baby, her mother stood on one side of her and her father on the other. It’s the only full family photo she has. She stares at it, just stares and thinks about what she and David never had.

**Don’t cry, Carol.**

_I’m sorry, Iota. It’s just –_

The alarms start going before she can finish her thought.

 

*

 

She’s twenty-seven and York’s left her. Left her, for Texas.

She kicks out at her chair, swipes the lamp from her desk. She’s so angry, so fucking furious that he’d leave her for _Texas._ Texas, whom he knows she hates with all her being. Texas, who pushed her to do everything she’d done, who’d pushed her so hard, made her feel so insignificant despite all of her fucking work and all of her dedication. In a way, everything that had happened was the fault of Texas

But York still left with her. And Carolina would be lying if she said that didn’t hurt.

To make things worse, they’re pulling the A.I. What happened to Wash apparently scared the Director, and now they’re pulling the A.I. It’s why York and Texas left without a word, attacking Wyoming and attempting to steal Gamma as they did. She’s not giving up Eta and Iota. She refuses. She can’t lose them as well.

She slams her fist into the wall, one, two, three, four, five times. She hears a crunch, feels the blood between her fingers and decides she doesn’t care anymore. She just doesn’t fucking care anymore. She’s lost her mother, her father, her fucking brother and now York. She’s fucking losing it, and the pain of a couple of broken knuckles is nothing compared to the pain of losing everyone she loves.

She just doesn’t care.

**Carol?**

She can feel the concern – no, the _fear_ – radiating from Iota.

**Carol? Are you okay?**

She doesn’t respond, she just presses her forehead against the cool metal of the wall. Breathes, in 2-3-4-5. Out, 2-3-4-5.

**Carol, please. You’re scaring me.**

_I’m sorry, Iota. I’m just –_

Angry? We’ve noticed.

_Listen, I’m sorry._

**You’re bleeding.**

She sighs, looks down at her bleeding hand and the bruises already blossoming across her knuckles.

**You need to get it seen to.**

_I know._ She breathes in and out, watches the blood run down her arms. _I know._

 

*

 

She’s twenty-seven and Maine rips the A.I. from the back of her head.

York and Texas break into the _MOI,_ bring the ship crashing into the planet below. She’s fighting Texas on the bridge when the ship slams into the Cliffside and she’s thrown out of the window, sending her sprawling into the snow. The side of her helmet caves in, catches her cheek. She hears a crunch, feels the blood running already. Her visor cracks.

It takes her a while to move, takes her forever to force her limbs to obey her. And by then, she can see Maine making his way towards her, sees his Bruteshot strapped to his back. She thinks he’s friendly for a split second before she sees the way he hold himself, the way he walks, and knows from seeing him in action that he’s not friendly.

She tries to fight him, but it’s no use with a broken arm and a banged up head. He picks her up by the chest piece, holds her off the ground. He tosses her helmet aside and pulls at the A.I. chips at the back of her head.

Eta and Iota cling to her, scream their panic as she screams her pain. Maine rips them from the back of her head, and they take a part of herself with them. The silence hits her, hits her worse than a swing to the face. It stuns her, stops her from resisting Maine as he tosses her off the side of the cliff.

The silence in her mind is too much. She can feel the wounds, the parts where Eta and Iota tried to stay with her and tore her away instead. It’s numbing, feeling those parts of you taken away. She can’t even scream.

It takes her a long time to remember the grappling hook at her waist.

 

*

 

She’s twenty-seven and it’s too quiet.

She spends a long time sat on the shelf poking out of the cliff face, a long time just sitting and staring at the misty expanse before her. She tries to piece her mind together, tries to accustom herself to the quiet. She lived with only her thoughts for twenty-seven years. Why can’t she remember the feeling?

She knows full well why. She knows it’s because Eta and Iota became a part of her, bonded themselves with her. There were things she’d find herself doing against her better judgement, things that they were the influencing force behind. And there are traces of them, little traces that have worn themselves too deep to be pulled out again.

It’s a long time before she moves, and she realises she’s too late to go back for David. They’ll have him – the Director will have him. And Carolina’s not stupid enough to try and bust him out.

But, she is stupid enough to go back to the crash.

Why? That box of trinkets beneath her bed. She needs them.

 

*

 

She’s twenty-seven and she steals a ship.

She walks and walks until she finds a city, steals a D77-TC Pelican and hightails it as far away from the planet as she can. She flies away, flies and flies until there are millions of miles between her and everything that’s gone wrong in her life. And she finally stops, finally come to rest at a distant planet.

And she lets herself cry. Lets herself scream and cry until she’s got no tears to spare. Lets herself cry for York, who betrayed her for Texas. Lets herself cry for David, mad and in the clutches of the Director. For Maine, who was so badly damaged he didn’t remember who he was anymore. For the Dakotas, who tore at each other’s throats over the sake of the A.I.

She cries for Eta and Iota, who’s voices she misses dearly. She misses Eta naming stars and colour. She misses Iota’s calming voice. She can still hear the echoes of them at the back of her mind, where the wounds they left dig deep into her. She can still see things too clearly, still hear things she shouldn’t. It’s a side effect of the two of them, a permanent side effect.

And it’s not the only one.

It’s only noticed when she finally looks in the mirror again, when she looks and sees the blood in her left eye. She remembers the medics talking to her before her implantation, remembers how they explained that subconjunctival haemorrhaging could be a side effect of having two A.I. in her head or a side effect if they were ever removed in a traumatising way.

She runs her hand across the wound on the back of her neck, winces when her fingers ghost over where Eta and Iota were supposed to be embedded. There’s a wound on her left cheek too, from where her helmet caved in. Blonde hairs are starting to peak through the red dye here and there. Deep shadows pool beneath her eyes.

She knows she’s changed. She just can’t believe how quickly it happened.

 

*

 

She’s thirty-eight and she’s alone.

She’s been alone for nine years, nine years to forget and let go. Nine years to get used to the silence. Nine years to start a new life, free of the ghosts of her family and friends.

But she clings to that life, clings to her name and her family. She hangs her mother’s flag above her bed in the Pelican, sticks the photos up in random spots to remind herself who she is. If she lets herself drift away for too long, she loses herself. And she can’t afford to lose herself.

Against her better judgement, she hacks into PFL’s files, tracks down the former Freelancers. She reads Maine’s file, reads on how he lost himself to the Sigma A.I. and went on a rampage, killing whatever he could find. Her stomach churns, remembering how she went out of her way to make sure that Maine received the Sigma A.I.

It’s all her fault that this happened.

York’s file is updated one day. His status is changed from ‘rogue’ to ‘deceased’.

She puts her fist through a mirror.

 

*

 

She’s thirty-nine and South’s dead.

She’s been watching their files, constantly updating since she read that North was dead. David’s shot in the back by South. She watches the video feed from David’s helmet when it’s uploaded after he’s found. She almost breaks another mirror when South shoots David in the back, has to stop herself from chasing South down. Carol’s still marked down as KIA, and no one’s looking for her. She’s not ready to change that just yet.

So when South’s file updates, she know exactly who it is that killed her. David survived, and David was there when South was shot. It says Michael J. Caboose on the file, but she knows it was David.

She reads South’s file that night, reads North’s as well, along with the one labelled ‘The Dakota Experiment’. She learns about how South never would’ve gotten that A.I., how she and her brother were part of an experiment to see what would happen if one of them received an A.I. and the other didn’t.

‘Experiment’. She spits at the word. That’s all they were to the Director. Experiments. She’s read the files, seen how she was part of her own experiment. She knows Texas was an A.I., she knows what they did to the Alpha to make the fragments. She knows who Texas was based off of. She knows everything.

C.T. would be laughing at her now. C.T. warned her the day they went to retrieve her armour, told her that the Director was playing them all along. And know she knows, but C.T.’s dead and most of the others are either dead or so far off the deep end that they may as well be dead.

What the Director did to them doesn’t sit right with her. And the fact that they’ve all paid for what he’s done doesn’t sit right. She lashes out again when David’s file updates, declares that he’d imprisoned in a UNSC high security facility for the Director’s crimes. She ends up putting her fist through a console, shouts until she loses her voice about the injustice of it all.

Everything that’s happened has happened because the Director couldn’t just let go of the memory of her mother.

Carol stopped trying to hate him years ago. It’s just a habit by now.

 

*

 

She’s forty-one and she has a plan.

No one knows where the Director is. The Alpha was destroyed, along with all the other fragments. But she knows of one fragment that wasn’t in the E.M.P blast, one fragment that got away and holds the key to making sure the Director pays for what he’s done: Epsilon.

Epsilon’s trait was memory. Epsilon had the memories of the Director and the Alpha. It would know of all the Director’s plans, all of his facilities and schemes. Epsilon was her ticket to justice.

And she’s not the only one tracking it.

David and Maine get out of jail. She tracks them from her ship, tracks their progress in hunting down Epsilon. She wants to help, but just doesn’t know how they’ll react if she shows up again. After all, Maine tossed her from a cliff the last time she and him were face to face. She’s not about to give him the opportunity to repeat that.

But when David’s file updates to ‘deceased’ along with Maine’s, she starts wishing she had.

She’s docked by the time the file updates, clearing her supplies out from the ship. She checks the file one last time before she leaves, sees the updated status on David’s and freezes. Just freezes, because there’s no way that David – _David_ , with his glasses and his freckles and his lopsided glasses – can be dead.

But it says it right there on the screen, right next to his name.

She screams, turns and throws the padd right at a tree and watches as it smashes to pieces. Falls to her knees, tugs off her helmet and tosses it aside. She screams, lets the tears fall down her face because David is _gone_ , gone with everyone else.

It started with her mother. Started with her, and then C.T. was next, then York, then North, Wyoming, South, the Alpha, Eta and Iota, Maine and now even David. David, her one fucking reason for living now. The Director caused all of this, built this project up around him and did nothing to help when it all came tumbling down. This clusterfuck is his, yet he’s still hiding, still unwilling to come out and admit defeat.

And it pushes her, pushes her to get up off her knees and move. Because she needs to get some kind of justice for the Freelancers.

It’s what they deserve.

 

*

 

She’s forty-one and she’s tracked the Blues.

She knows exactly where they are. She keeps checking her GPS every five seconds, keeps checking for the signal from their jeep. Epsilon’s with them, inhabiting a shiny new body. She tracked the Reds’ Hornet too, knows where they eventually crashed it. It’s not too far, and she’s going for them afterwards. The more soldiers she has at her disposal, the better.

The GPS beeps, lets her know that the jeep is coming up. She stands, brushes the dirt from her armour and moves to stand right in the middle of the road, arms over her chest. She eyes the mine she placed at the side of the road, right where she knows the tires of the jeep will go over if they swerve to avoid her.

The jeep comes squealing around the corner. She hears someone shout, watches as the driver – a man in turquoise armour – yanks the wheel to the right and drives right over the mine. It explodes and she can’t help but smile. The car flips. She ducks down into a crouch as it flies over head, tossing the purple armoured passenger from the back with a scream as it does. He lands on the ground with a thud, cracks his helmeted head against the floor and doesn’t move against.

The figure in dark blue comes flying out next, smacks into the cliff wall and sends rocks falling. She winces when a particularly large one lands on his leg and she hears a snap followed by a scream. But he’s up in a flash, pushing the rock off of his leg and staggering around the small clearing. His visor’s got a spider web of cracks across it, and she knows he’ll have a concussion.

The jeep finally skids to a stop on its roof. She can see Epsilon in the front seat, struggling to get out. She watches as he falls out, tugs off his helmet and starts crawling towards the purple soldier. She makes her way towards him, pistol whips the blue one when he stumbles right into her path.

And she grabs Epsilon by his chest plate, ready to pull him up when she looks him in the face. She freeze, goes completely still, because she’s looking David in the eyes. David, missing his glasses and having more scars than she remembers but still being the same old David with that x shaped scar on his left cheek and his freckles and his bright blonde hair.

She lets go of his chest plate, staggers back because there’s no way he’s alive, no way that the file was wrong –

“No way,” she chokes out, staring down at David. Her knees feel week.

He looks up at her, says, “Carol?”

It’s the first time she’s heard his voice in fifteen years, and it hurts to hear how different he sounds, how much more older and serious than he was in PFL. But she doesn’t fight the smile the breaks across her face, doesn’t fight the tears of happiness that pool in her eyes, because she’s not alone for the first time in fifteen years.

“Hey little brother.”


	5. Part V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the "--" are where it's not a change of POV or a time skip, it's still in the same section of events.
> 
> basically i'm lazy and i don't want to keep writing "she's forty-one" and "he's thrity-seven" over and over again. it gets v repetitive.

She's forty-one and she's reunited with her brother.

It's not the reunion she wanted. Not by a long shot. In another universe, their reunion wouldn't be after fifteen years. It wouldn't be after she's seen his status updated to 'KIA'. It would most certainly not be after she's just caused an explosion and crashed their jeep.

But here she is. And this is as good of a reunion as she's going to get.

David's obviously in shock. He's staring up at her and not moving. Just breathing, obviously trying to register the fact that she's here. She's still not over the fact that he's alive, that he wasn't killed by the Meta and that he's here now, wearing another man's armour and looking so much worse than he used to but here nonetheless.

There's several moments of silence, broken only by the groans of the soldier in blue. It's a while before Wash finally speaks.

"Fifteen years," he says. "You've been alive for the last fifteen years."

"David -"

" _Don't._ "

She sees his shaking hand, watches as he presses it to his temple. His eyes screw shut, as if he's in pain. She reaches out, but he pulls away from her.

"You left me there."

"I had no choice."

"They told me you were dead. _He_ told me you were dead."

She closes her eyes.  _In, 2-3-4-5. Out, 2-3-4-5._

"Where were you?"

"I was..." She racks her brains, tries to formulate an answer he'd be able to accept. "I guess I was drifting."

He nods when you say this, seems to understand. "So was I."

 

*

 

She's forty-one and she has no idea what to say.

The two of them have never had uncomfortable silences. They've always been so at home, so comfortable, around each other. This silence that stretches between them as she sees to the wounds that she inflicted on the Blue team when she made their Jeep crash is enough to drive her insane. Wash doesn't speak. He just watches her carefully, flinches when she sets the Blue soldier's - Caboose's - leg and the kid lets out a shout. She's aware of his eyes on her face, watching her move. It's unsettling, really, just how quiet he is.

"So what was with the whole Jeep crashing?" he asks when she starts working on him. She wipes the blood from his face, scrunches up her nose when the smell of the cleaning alcohol hits her nose. Not so tenderly, she slaps the cloth over the gash in Wash's hair, sees him wince when the alcohol hits the wound.

"I didn't know if you guys would actually come with me," she says. "And I was under the impression that you were dead." He closes his eyes. "So, I shot down the Reds -"

"You shot down the Reds?"

"And then made your jeep crash. Guess I was trying to scare the idiots into coming with me."

Wash smiles at that. It's not his lopsided smile. It's a tired little smile that only serves to make him look older. There's another silence, and Wash's smile drops before he speaks again. "So, how come you only decided to show up now, after fifteen years?"

"I was going to wait for a while," she murmurs, cleaning the cut as thoroughly as she can. "I don't know... I guess I was waiting for Maine to..."

Another heavy silence, one in which Wash drops his gaze to the ground and has to take a shaky breath. She keeps working, refuses to meet his eyes.

"I understand," he mutters. "I mean, I know you were the first person he -"

He covers his eyes with his hand, takes another deep breath. She focuses on her own breathing, tries and keeps it level.

"Your file was updated. Said you were dead," she says.

"Blues' idea," he mumbles. She follows his gaze to the blue helmet, highlighted yellow like his old armour had been. "Caboose wanted to 'keep me'. Guess it was their way of saying thanks after what happened at Sidewinder."

"What happened at Sidewinder?"

Wash is silent long enough for her to finish patching up his head. She sits back, cleans her blood-soaked hands with the alcohol.

"We trapped Tex in the capture unit," he says. The sound of her name sends Carolina's blood boiling. "Maine - The Meta - turned on me. Damn near killed me. The Reds and Blues killed him. I gave one of them the tow hook of a Warthog, told him to end it. Maine's body went off the edge of the cliff with that Warthog. He died. I survived."

They both take a minute to breathe at that. Carolina remembers Maine back when he had control of his own mind, back when he had a bad attitude to everyone but herself, Wash and Connie. Back when he'd have those stupid smart-ass one-liners. Back when he would've taken a bullet for Wash. Back when he took several for her -

_In, 2-3-4-5. Out, 2-3-4-5._

"He didn't deserve it," Wash says. His voice breaks at the end. Carolina snakes an arm around his shoulders, feels him melt into the hug like he used to. He arm makes its way around her back, face pressed into her shoulder. And they sit there for a few moments, just breathing in and out with his head on her shoulder and her fingers threaded through his hair, the two of them just breathing, enjoying the fact they're both alive and they're not alone.

Wash says, "I'm glad you're not dead."

She smiles, despite herself, and there are tears working their way into her eyes.

"Me too, little brother."

 

*

 

He's thirty-seven and his team is not happy.

It's understandable. Doc has two broken ribs and a snapped wrist; Caboose's leg is broken and Tucker has a severe concussion. And it's all Carolina's fault, since she's the one who planted a bomb and made their Jeep swerve off of the road. Tucker and Doc definitely don't take the news of her being a Freelancer all too well, considering the events that had recently transpired at Sidewinder.

"Another fucking Freelancer?" Tucker half-shouts after Wash explains who Carolina is. "Are you fucking serious? We just fucking killed one and another shows up? You guys are like fucking bunnies."

"Please tell me this one is nicer than the Meta," Doc mutters.

"I'm not here to kill you," Carolina says with a roll of her eyes. "I'm here to ask you guys for help."

"Help?" Wash asks. She'd not mentioned her motivation for being here earlier.

"I need to get Epsilon."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going after the Director."

He freezes, eyes wide and hands shaking. He looks to her, hopes she's joking. But she's deadly serious, watching him carefully to gauge his reaction. He can feel his mouth going dry when he thinks about the Director, how the last time he spoke to the Director the man ordered Wash's former best friend to kill him.

"No one knows where he is," Wash says when he finds his voice. He notices the crack when he speaks, sees Tucker frown slightly as if he knows there's something wrong. "He disappeared after I destroyed Command. Never been seen since."

"I know someone who knows where he is."

"Who?"

"Epsilon."

"Why the fuck would Church know where this Director dude is?" Tucker asks.

Wash sees Carolina freeze out of the corner of his eye when the name 'Church' is said. He watches her carefully, hopes she doesn't hurt Tucker. She takes a deep breath before she speaks. "Epsilon is based off of the memories of the Director. He knows exactly where the Director would go because he  _is_ the Director, in a way."

"Makes talking to him ten times worse," Wash murmurs. The corner of Carolina's mouth twitches.

"You're going after Church?" Tucker asks. "He's locked in that stupid memory unit. There's no way to get him out."

"Actually," Carolina says, "There is."

Caboose looks up.

"With the proper tools, equipment and someone who knows what they're doing, it'll be easy to get him out."

"Except none of us know what we're doing."

"Which is why we're going after the Reds too."

Tucker blinks twice. "You're shanghaiing the lot of us into going after this Director dude?"

"You want your friend back, don't you?"

Tucker only need to look at Caboose once and see the look of childish hope on the kid's face before he sighs and agrees to the plan.

Wash starts to worry.

 

*

 

He's thirty-seven and he's riding shotgun with his sister.

They found the Reds. They weren't too impressed when they found out about the adventure they were being dragged along on. But Church's "death" weighs heavily on them, and finding a way to bring him back is enough to motivate the Reds in coming along on this crazy adventure to find the Director, even though Wash heard them make a few choice words about his sister that he knows she would kill them for. But she needs Simmons, who's the only one who can bust Epsilon out of that capture unit.

Their group is spread across three Warthogs - Reds in one, Blues in one and Carolina and Wash in the last. Wash had intended for Doc to ride with him and Carolina, but Doc had shaken his head, had told him he was going back to Valhalla. That, of course, pissed off Carolina - "We're a soldier short now!" - until Doc explained his pacifism and demonstrated how inept he was with a gun. After that, he set off for Valhalla, but not before pulling Wash aside and telling him to be careful.

"I'm not too sure about her," Doc admits, his eyes on Carolina as she loads up a Warthog.

"What d'you mean?" Wash asks.

"She doesn't seem to be...  _all there._ "

"Doc -"

"I know she's your friend Wash, but please be careful," Doc says, hoisting his duffel bag further up his shoulder. His winces when he moves his broken wrist. "Your last friend turned into a murderous monster and tried to kill you."

Wash winces at that.

"Take care of yourself," Doc says, noting that Carolina's waiting to leave. "And drink plenty of orange juice."

Wash almost wants to shout Doc back, to convince him to come with them after the Director. He knows the Doc deserves some kind of respite after what happened with the whole Meta situation, but Wash can't help but think that Doc's the only real friend he's got these days, and - in some selfish way - he doesn't want to lose the guy now at a crucial moment.

But he doesn't call him back. He just watches until the purple figure disappears down the mountain.

So now Wash has to endure a car ride significantly tenser than the one with the Blues. Of course, the Blues weren't his siblings that he believed dead for fifteen years so it's bound to be a harder ride.

It's a long time before he asks: "Grappling hook?"

She nods. "Yup."

"Okay."

"It was useful for more than dragging you into the Pelican by your balls."

He smiles. "Back when things were good."

There's a wistful look on her face. "South teased you about that for weeks. Kept saying she was sure the hook punctured your suit."

Wash smiles, leans his head back against the seat. "She punched me in the dick when I took the codpiece off to look."

Carolina actually laughs and Wash has to laugh too, because it's the first time he's heard her laugh for fifteen years - maybe longer. And Carolina's laugh was always infectious. For such a serious person, she had the best laugh.

Their smiles die down. Carolina sighs through her nose. "South used to be fun."

Wash stares at the dashboard. "Before everything went to shit."

"I know she shot you."

He nods.

"I know you killed her."

He closes his eyes.

 "I understand."

He glances at her. Her eyes are fixated on the road. "What?"

She shifts uncomfortably in her feet. "I sort of understand why you did it. I know what she did to you." Her hands tighten around the wheel. "But she was a teammate."

He glares at the dashboard. "Was."

Carolina has nothing to say to that.

 

*

 

She's forty-one and she's had enough of these idiots.

They manage to get Epsilon back from the UNSC - probably made themselves wanted criminals in the process, but that's not important. And she finds out that Epsilon doesn't remember anything. Nothing. Not a single thing. So she's got herself a useless A.I. and no leads on the Director. She almost takes out a wall when Epsilon tells her he doesn't remember any of the Director's memories.

To make things worse, these soldiers are idiots. In fact, she's not even sure they're actually soldiers. She's sure they're just idiots who managed to get hold of power armour. They're completely incapable of holding themselves in a fight from what she's seen so far; they've done nothing but bicker amongst themselves since she's found them and now they've made her stop at Zanzibar for a "break".

"We've been driving for hours," Grif complains.

"And we've got a lot more ground to cover," she says through gritted teeth. "So let's keep moving."

"Listen lady -" she almost attacks him there and then "- I know this is your first road trip with us, but we've got a system. And that system includes snack breaks, bathroom breaks, and stopping to take pictures of funny road signs."

She just stares dumbfounded at the orange soldier for several seconds. "That's ridiculous."

"Not as ridiculous as Bonner Street," Grif says and her fists clench.

"So close," Simmons whispers.

"It's out there, Simmons," Grif says, turning to his friend. "We just have to have faith that we'll find it."

There must've been something about the way she was standing that set off warning bells in Wash's head, because he's by her side in a second, turning her away from the Reds and towards the facility.

"C'mon, before you kill something," he mutters.

"What a bunch of worthless idiots," she says when she's stood on the balcony of the facility, overlooking the Reds and Blues.

"Yeah, they're idiots," Wash says, standing behind her. "But, they're not that bad once you get to know them."

"Hm."

She sees him glance at the windmill. "Y'know, we almost captured the Meta the last time we were here."

As if that's what she needs, being reminded of the Meta. She speaks without thinking, spitting the words out. "But, you didn't."

She walks away.

"No," she hears him say. "I guess not."

She doesn't look back.

\--

She finds herself stood before the turbines in Zanzibar. They're still running, amazingly. The Meta was here once. Maybe there's something that can point towards the Director if the Meta specifically came here. So, she's looking for anything that can help lead towards the Director, the slightest shred of evidence that points to where he is. 

"Looking for something?"

Wash.

"Leads," she growls, "Information,  _anything_. You said Maine had been through here, right?"

"Yeah, but that was ages ago."

"Then look  _closely._ " She turns to face him. "Don't tell me hanging around those morons has made you soft."

She's sure his grip on his rifle tightens. Wash doesn't speak for a moment before he looks up at the turbines.

"The Meta was attempting to transfer energy from these turbines into his suit," Wash says, his voice monotone. "It was the only way to keep his equipment running."

She takes a deep breath. "Poor Maine."

Wash glances at her. "It wasn't your fault."

He clearly knows her too well. "But it was my A.I."

"None of us could've known what would happen."

She thinks of the Director and the Counsellor. "Sometimes, I'm not so sure."

"What?"

"We were told that the A.I. were specifically designed for each of us, right?" He nods. "North was chosen for Theta, York -" She manages to keep her voice level "- had Delta. Sigma was  _mine._ "

"What're you saying?"

"You really think the Director didn't know what would happen?"

"Carolina, that's ridiculous -"

"He always had his little experiments, Wash. He just forgot to take a few extra variables into account."

"And what about now? The whole world thinks you're dead. Do you think he knows you're coming for him?"

"Yes, I do. And, for once, I look forward to proving him right."

Wash signs. "The Director was always hard on you."

She remembers a twelve year old Wash slamming into the Director and coming off of his skateboard and getting a smack round the face. She remembers South getting moved down the leader board after a mission she was doomed to fail. "He was hard on all of us."

"Yeah, you're right. But, you have to admit, he was pretty hard on himself to."

There's white hot rage in her limbs and she rounds on Wash just as a turquoise soldier stands up on the overlooking balcony.

"BOW CHICKA BOW -"

She shoots. He ducks.

"WOAH! SAME TEAM, SAME TEAM!"

It's Tucker.

"What are you doing here?" she growls, taking a step forwards.

"Okay, take it easy Carolina," Epsilon says, materializing over Tucker's shoulder. "We just wanted information."

"Epsilon?" Wash says.

"Look, if you two are planning on dragging us around wherever you want, the least you could do is fill us in."

"I'll fill her in," Tucker says. She sees red. "Bow chicka -"

She shoots at him again. He ducks again.

"You and your squad are on a need-to-know basis," she spits out. "And right now, you don't need to know anything."

"Seriously?" Epsilon shouts. "Jesus, you're worse than Tex."

She shoots at him too. The bullets pass right through the hologram and hit the wall behind.

"Okay, that was on you," Tucker says, looking at Epsilon.

" _GET. OUT!"_ you shout, rifle still aimed at them.

"Fine, we're leaving!" Epsilon calls back. He vanishes, and Tucker leaves a moment later.

"Carolina, you've gotta calm down," Wash says once they leave.

"Don't tell me how to lead my squad, Washington," she snaps, lowering her rifle. "Now, sweep the area and report back to me when you're done."

She storms off.

"On it boss," she hears Wash say tiredly.

\--

She ends up on the beach, and she just... breathes. Just crouches and watches as the water splashes against the fronts of her boots before being swept out again. And, she thinks. She thinks about her next objective, if nothing comes up at this base. She thinks about the desert, about shaved brown hair and brown armour. Following a short figure down the corridors of the _MOI_ , bears hanging from her fingers and a smile on her face. An axe connecting with her stomach, bright red blood on brown -

There's someone on the beach behind her.

"The facility is clear."

Wash.

"Find anything?" Carolina asks. She doesn't look at him.

"Nothing we didn't already know."

She snorts. "Figured as much. This place was a dead end."

"Sorry, boss."

"The structure we're going to next, you're positive our target was there?"

"I know what I saw, that's why it's on our list."

She stands, turns to face him. "But I know what  _I_ saw, and it doesn't make any sense."

"All the more reason to investigate."

"Alright then." She looks back to the ocean. "Let's go find C.T."

 

*

 

He's thirty-seven and he's looking down at C.T's body again.

They're in the desert again. C.T's helmet, scratched and clogged with sand, only just pokes out of the sand. Wash gets on his hands and knees and digs her out up to her chest. He stands back, looks to Carolina, who's standing in silence just behind him.

"There," he says. "I have no idea how she got here."

"That's because she didn't."

He frowns. "What?"

Carolina kneels down and tugs at the helmet. He has to hold back the bile that rises up his throat when he sees the rotting face beneath it.

But, it's not the green, decaying flesh that makes him feel sick. It's the fact that it's not C.T., that it's someone else. Someone he remembers from meetings on board the _MOI_.

"Is that who I think it is?" he asks, glancing at Carolina. She doesn't look at him. "How did this happen?"

"I never told you what happened when Texas and I went after Connie."

He doesn't like the tone in her voice.

"Connie was with the Insurrectionist Leader. Connie... she tried to tell me about the Director, she tried to warn me. I didn't listen. She knew what Texas was. She called her a 'shadow'. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but Connie knew who Texas was. I should've listened, I should've -"

"Carolina, it wasn't your fault."

She gives a shaky laugh. "Sure."

He wants to say something, but he knows she wont listen. So he chooses to listen instead.

"Texas shot first. We fought, and then Texas was stood with two axes and two Connie's because of that enhancement of hers and then Texas swung and caught Connie in the stomach and then in the chest. I told her to stop and Connie got away with the Insurrectionist Leader."

"So how did he end up here, in her armour?"

"I did some digging while I was... away. He took on her identity, buried her somewhere I can't find. And then he pretended to be her for years before he was killed and buried here."

He looks back to "C.T". "So, that's what happened to her armour."

Carolina nods. "Apparently."

"But, why come out here? What was the motive?"

Carolina kneels down in the sand and digs into the armour's compartments. A moment later, she pulls out an old data file, the Project Freelancer emblazoned on the front. "I have a feeling this might tell us."

 

\--

 

There's an old Elephant sitting in the sand. It's years old and rusting around the edges but the computer inside is still fully operational, so Carolina passes him the data file and he gets to work trying to unlock the files. The computer powers up and the Project Freelancer logo pops up on screen. Wash pulls his helmet off whilst he works.

"I'll go get Epsilon," Carolina says. She too has her helmet off. Wash can see the ring of red around her left iris, identical to his own, the spiderweb angry red scars on the back of her neck when she turns. "Maybe seeing this file will jog some of his memories."

"Mm hmm." He frowns at the screen, wipes the sweat from his forehead.

She disappears down the hill and comes back a moment later. "Any luck?"

"I think so."

He types for another second, and the computer gives a little beep. Several images, none of which make any sense to him, pop up on screen.

"All right," he says, leaning back from the screen. "Data pad accepted. Looks like we're in business."

"So, what do you need Church for?"

Tucker.

"I just told you," Carolina says through gritted teeth.

"Oh... yeah, but I mean you could talk to me instead. 'Sup girl?"

Wash knows he's going to have to restrain Carolina at some point during this conversation.

"Why on Earth would I ever want to do that?"

"Well, you know we're a perfect match! We're both super good-looking, badass, rebel loners -" Wash holds back a snort "- and we've got the same armour colour. Greenish-blue."

Carolina stares at Tucker.

"Aquamarine? Turquoise? Hey, what the fuck colour armour is this anyways?"

"Listen, it's important we figure out what's on C.T.'s data pad," Wash says. "It might be our next clue to finding the Director."

Tucker glances at the screen behind Wash and his eyebrows quirk. "Hey, I know that thing!"

Wash frowns and glances back. There's an image of a Forerunner Monitor.  "Wait, you recognize this artifact?"

"Hell yeah, it was the biggest pain in the ass!"

Caboose runs over the hill and comes to a stop behind Tucker. He too sees the Forerunner Monitor on the screen. "Ah, it's Church. Yeah he has lost a lot of weight."

"What?" Carolina says.

"Oh yeah, Caboose transferred Epsilon from the memory unit into that thing a long time ago."

"Well, where is it now?"

"I dunno. Who cares?"

"I do."

Tucker squirms under Carolina's intense gaze. Warning bells start going off in Wash's head. "Oh. Well. In that case, uh, Caboose! Tell her where it is."

"Right." Caboose also seems to feel the tension and, for once, he too starts squirming, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. "Yes. Okay. Right. Yes. I will do that... yes ... right now."

Wash is 99% sure he's about to see Carolina kill one of the blues. He tenser that a piano wire, ready to snap forwards at any moment to hold back Carolina if he needs to. He sees her body language change when Caboose tells her he left it in the Freelancer warehouse, sees her fists tighten and her muscles go taut.

"How can you just leave," Carolina spits, enunciating every word, "an ancient alien artifact on the floor  _of a warehouse_?!"

"Okay, hold on," Caboose says, "I mean, to be fair, you know, he ha already broken it."

The screen sparks and flashes behind Wash. He turns, sees the file spark in the port. The images on screen flash several times before an error message shows up on screen.

"Uh-oh, that's not good," he whispers, pulling the file from the port.

"Ugh! I can't believe we came all this way for nothing!" Carolina half-shouts before she jams her helmet back on and disappears off down the hill again.

"You guys are not making my life easy right now," Wash says with a sigh, turning to look at the the two Blues.

"Do we ever?" Tucker asks.

"Good point."

 

*

 

She's forty-one and she's never been so angry in her entire life.

She's had three dead ends so far and she's no closer to finding the Director. In fact, she feels like her goal is slowly rolling away from her the more time she spends pulling these idiots around or waiting for Epsilon to remember something. Even better still: the data file's corrupted now. So she's got no data file, a useless A.I. and a group of rag-tag idiots who probably can't manage to tie their own shoelaces without fucking up.

She comes to a stop inside the temple. Pulling off her helmet, she leans back against the temple wall and just breathes, because she knows she needs to calm down before she talks to the Reds and Blues again or else she'll probably hit one of them.

There are two more places she has on her list. Valhalla, the Reds and Blues' old base. Texas's ship crashed there. She hopes that there'll be something there to lead her in the direction of the Director. Either that, or it can jog Epsilon's memories some. If it doesn't work, she's going to lose it.

And then there's somewhere else she wants to go. A facility on an island, not related to her search, but important to her. It was his last recorded location before his status updated.

There's footsteps. She looks up sees Wash walking down the slope into the temple.

"So, what's the plan now?" he asks.

"There's an island nearby that I want to visit," she says, pushing off from the wall and turning her helmet over in her hands. "Shouldn't take more than a day or so."

Wash understands what she's saying immediately. "That old fortress? Carolina, I'm not sure there's a -"

"Wash." He falls silent. "Trust me on this?"

She watches his visor carefully, tries and gauges his reaction from the way he stands, from his silence, before she hears him sigh through his nose. "Right. You should follow your instinct."

"You stay here and keep the sim troopers from causing any trouble," she says, pulling her helmet back on as she makes her way up the slope into the sun. "I won't be long."

The Reds and Blues scatter when they see her coming. She ignores them as she swings her leg over the Mongoose and kicks the engine into gear. Without so much as a glance to them or to Wash - who's just appearing at the top of the slope - she drives off in the direction of the facility.

She's going to go to where York died.

She sighs.

**Author's Note:**

> don't hate me


End file.
